The Dungeon Birds
by orangeturquoise
Summary: When they were sent on that One Last Mission, our knights had no idea what they were in for... New people shake things up. Nothing is sure anymore. Come and witness...
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize from the movie. As if! If I did I wouldn't be spending my time writing, but that's a different story. _

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**_The Dungeon Birds_**

_Chapter 1_

She had never been an overly spiritual person, but she was very certain this place would make a suitable hell for any religion. Rough hands shoved her inside one of the damp and mouldy cells, which she would henceforth share with an estimated four villagers in different stages of decay (she decided that dwelling on that fact would be detrimental to her mental health) and another woman who mustered her with a mixture of compassion and mistrust. She swept away a strand of greasy, dark blonde hair behind her ear before addressing the new arrival in heavily accented Latin.

"You not from village." She stated. The other nodded in agreement before saying: "And you are not from this country."

"No." The blonde woman smiled wistfully, but did not elaborate further. She sat on the ground, leaning lightly against the wall behind her. There was a heavy chain wound around her neck, at which she would ever so often tug absentmindedly.

"My name is Guinevere." The new arrival said. The blonde's smile widened, though it got no more joyous. "Gui-ni-ferr." She tried.

"Close enough." Guinevere remarked. The other woman pointed a bony finger at herself and said: "Iosante."

"Yo..." Guinevere blinked and smiled sheepishly.

"Iosante." The other explained again patiently.

"Yosande."

"Close enough, Guineferr." Iosante grinned.

"Where are you from then?" Guinevere asked, making sure to speak slowly and clearly.

"Far east lands," the foreigner murmured, "East and south, far away. More than one year travel."

"I don't suppose I've ever heard of it." Guinevere stated.

"Maybe, is called Sarmatia." Iosante replied, her voice caressing the name of her homeland like a long lost lover. Guinevere instead stiffened. The biggest threat to their rebellion, Artorius Castus' knights, hailed from there.

"So how did you get here?" the Briton woman inquired a little more harshly now. The other either didn't notice the change or decided to pay no heed to it.

"I am slave, sent here as gift to master of village, Marius Honorius."The name she spat with unconcealed contempt. "How with you?"

"I want to drive the Romans from my country." Guinevere declared passionately.

"You are rebel then. Fighter."

"Yes."

"Good. ... Not good that you here now." She said with a wide gesture towards their current dwelling place.

The Woad rebel nodded sadly. Suddenly her ears picked up on a small noise.

"Is there anybody else here?" she asked.

"You mean other from Mental Monk and Obnoxious Monk?" Guinevere couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the nicknames, but nodded again. "Yes, apart from those. Other captives I mean, like us."

"Yes, healer woman from village and small boy, brother and sister." Iosante elaborated, then chanced a cautionary glance around, no doubt looking for signs of Mental and Obnoxious Monk, who thankfully were nowhere in sight. "Maeve!" she called out, the sound echoing off the massive stone walls.

"What?" a clearly annoyed, but otherwise not unpleasant voice yelled back from the other end of the room.

"We have new cell mate."

"Really?" the bodiless voice called back with dripping irony.

"Yes, really." Guinevere called out in Gaelic, then quickly translated the words into Latin for her new acquaintance. "My name is Guinevere."

"Well, then welcome to hell, Lady Guinevere." Maeve called, her voice laced with bitterness.

"Surely it's not that bad?" Guinevere inquired hopefully.

"No." Maeve's voice resounded, "It's much worse."

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Nimue dismounted her horse and dropped low to the ground. There were signs of a struggle, at least four men against one. She scanned the traces that heavy boots and sword tips had scraped into the earth thoroughly for hints of her lost friend's fate. She found Guinevere's dagger under a shrubbery and patted her horse on the nose with a sigh.

"Go hide." She commanded the animal, which did as it had been taught. Ensuring the horse was well out of sight she crept forward, following the traces of a heavily struggling person being dragged along, out of the woods and to the direction of the Roman family's estate. Upon reaching the edges of the forest, she soundlessly climbed a tree to get a better view of the fortress-like house and village. The pitiful huts of course were outside the thick stone walls. It wasn't like these pompous invaders to give a damn about the people they enslaved as long as they worked for them and did as they were told. Nimue snorted, her eyes already searching for signs as to where her friend might be kept. The walls concealed most of what belonged to the villa, so she strained her back and the branch she was crouching on dangerously trying to make out anything. A rustling below startled her and she immediately melted back into the shelter of leaves, the dark woad paint on her skin aiding a great deal in concealing her. Just below her one of the Roman guards set about to empty his bladder. One look above and she would be spotted. Nimue cursed inwardly. She could barely make a move without producing a sound. She would just have to wait it out. Unfortunately a bird chose exactly this moment to land right next to her and drop the final products of its digestion on the soldier's head. His head snapped up, revealing a look of utter annoyance that quickly was replaced with one of shock when he spotted the blue demon in the tree above. Now she didn't bother being quiet with her curses. Brandishing a sharp dagger she sprang into action instinctively, jumping off her branch and pinning the Roman to the ground. He died with the same look of astonishment on his face, gooey bird faeces dripping into his mouth and literally caught with his pants down. It was not a very heroic death. She could hardly have cared less. Three more Romans were running towards her now, yelling loudly in alarm and generally causing a ruckus. Nimue had grandly failed at staying undetected. Plus she didn't even have her weapons with her right now. Her sword and bow were strapped to the saddle of her horse. She was armed only with the dagger in her hand and another in her boot, which she decided would be helpful and drew.

Her first kick landed in soldier one's gut and sent him sprawling to the ground. Unfortunately this gave soldier two the chance to get behind her. He and soldier three circled her now. There was not a chance to get away now, not even if she managed all three. Number one was just clambering to his feet again, grunting like a hog. She was hopelessly cornered, but she would never go down without a fight. Two lunged at her, but she managed to dodge the attack. She swirled around and delivered another kick to her attacker's patella, dove under the swing of three's sword and firmly embedded one of her daggers into number one's neck. He went away with no more than a choked gurgling. Nimue had already returned to trading blows with the remaining soldiers. More came running from the main house now, preparing to aid their comrades. How many people did it take to guard a single family? At least five more were almost upon her now. Number three neglected his defence, allowing her to slit his throat with a nice, clean cut. A Roman short sword sliced her arm, making her hiss in pain and only attack her enemies even more ferociously. One more fell under her ruthless blades and some two she could injure before she felt the sharp metal of a sword dig into the soft flesh on her neck. Under different circumstances Nimue would not have hesitated to fight until her very last breath, but the object of her quest here was to find and free Guinevere. Annoyedly she lowered her arms. The last thing she felt was a heavy shield hitting the side of her head, then the world around her went black and she fell to the ground.

Guinevere shivered. How many days had she spent in here now? She had lost count. It felt like forever that she had been this hungry and cold. Although the Roman lady sneaked into the dungeon ever so often to bring them fresh water and scraps of food their state deteriorated with every passing moment. They hadn't heard a sound from Maeve in two days, and from her little brother only the blood-curdling scream when his arm broke. They were all subject to torture, though it was hard to tell which was worse: the physical abuse inflicted by the soldiers or the nerve-wrecking, monotonous, constant preachings from the monks. Iosante had paid a snide remark with a hurt – probably broken – leg and Guinevere's hand had been stretched and strained beyond the limits of agony in one of their torture machines, dislocating her fingers. And that was not even speaking of all the minor injuries: cuts, scrapes and bruises, seemingly millions of those. She wondered whether anyone of her people was searching for her. And if, would they be successful? Would she and her cell mates ever see the open skies again?

The answer came promptly when the doors flew open and some of the Roman soldiers dragged a new prisoner inside by the feet. The woman's skin was painted dark blue and adorned with even darker ornaments. Her pitch black hair was braided and pulled back into a high ponytail. She wore leather warrior's gear and a copper circlet around her neck. Guinevere cautiously crawled closer to get a better view.

"Nimue..." Guinevere whispered in disbelief upon recognising her dearest friend. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of her face. She must have taken a blow to the head that knocked her out for otherwise the fierce Woad woman would have kicked and thrashed around as if her life depended on the resistance she put up. However, Nimue soon disappeared from view again, being dragged into the depths of the dungeon. Here the soldiers crudely tied her up by the arms, so that she was hanging from a hook on the ceiling.

"Wake her." The highest ranking soldier coldly ordered, "And bring me the whip."

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_Questions? Suggestions? Leave a comment. You know you want to. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Now we come to the parts that I wrote while having the film on stand-by and replaying the scenes time and again, wondering how to alter them according to my story, which quotes to keep and which ones to change. I can pretty much speak along the lines by now, all for you, dear readers!_

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**_The Dungeon Birds_**

_Chapter 2_

The following day a strange sound woke the Woad and the Sarmatian from their lethargic state. Something or someone wielding a very heavy something hammered against the doors to their prison. The monks prayed faster as if that would do anything good. Angered voices could be heard, then heavy steps.

"Who are these defilers of the Lord's temple?" one monk cried, interrupting his prayers. Guinevere and Iosante crouched as close to the metal bars of their cell as possible, but since it was situated in the back part of the dungeon and the lighting left much to be desired they could only make out the shapes of a handful of men, soldiers apparently for the light from their torches would reflect off armour and weapons ever so often.

"Out of the way!" Lancelot commanded as he shoved the grubby monk aside. Not only was the smell obnoxious, the whole place seemed like hell's antechamber. Rotting corpses everywhere, crowded together in numbers a blind man see were not meant for the size of those cells.

"The work of your god!?" he accused Arthur, dismayed by the display of human, no, Roman cruelty. "Is this how he answers your prayers?"

Arthur looked equally as astounded. He gulped, no doubt to combat the urge to retch. "See if there's any still alive."

Lancelot opened the cell next to him, finding that the only living beings in there were rats, not that he had expected otherwise. There were artificial holes built into the ground as well, one after the other of which Dagonet proceeded to open. One of the other monks roughly grabbed Lancelot by the shoulders.

"How dare you set foot in this holy place?" the man screeched hoarsely, before being impaled on the sword of a very aggravated Lancelot. That any sane person could even consider calling such a place holy was beyond him already, to create it for the sole reason of committing atrocities and then claim its sacredness was pure sacrilege. The creature was dead before he hit the floor.

"That was a man of God!" the other monk complained.

"Not my god!" the knight fumed and whirled around to inspect more of the cells.

"This one's dead." Dagonet reported upon opening what must have been the third or fourth of these strange holes.

"By the smell, they're all dead." Gawain stated, only barely able to conceal his temper, and turned around to the remaining monks. "You even move, you join him." He warned them, motioning to their recently deceased colleague on the ground.

"Arthur!" Dagonet, now having reached hole number five, called out and fished a small child out of the less than spacious confinement.

"You must not fear me." He growled, no doubt trying to sound unthreatening and reassuring, both at which he failed miserably. The child, a blond boy, looked as if he'd start to cry every second and just barely managed to choke out a word: "Maeve."

He raised a bony finger to the cell situated on the opposite wall. Dagonet went over and opened it. At first he saw no body that still appeared to be in one piece, detected no movement or other sign to indicate that one of the cells inhabitants might still dwell among the living, but then he noticed a glimpse of vibrantly red hair among the uniformly grey-brown dirt. The woman belonging to the hair was unconscious and very weak, but breathing shallowly. Gently he picked up her bony frame.

"Maeve!" the boy now called out desperately, stretching out his skinny arm towards her. Gawain quickly picked up the boy and together the two knights made their way back into daylight.

"Oh my children, my dear, poor children!" one of the villagers wailed in a strange mixture of panic and elevation and ran towards the emerging knights.

"Water!" someone called out, "They need to drink!"

"Who are they? And why were they held captive?" Galahad asked, confusion on his face.

"These are our healer, Maeve, and her little brother. The old woman is their aunt. They took Maeve because she wouldn't give up her treatments in favour of prayer and all that useless stuff the monks wanted us to do when someone got sick." Ganis explained, obviously thoroughly shaken.

"Are there more down there?"

"Perhaps; yesterday the Romans caught another one of the rebels and brought her down there."

In the meantime Arthur and Lancelot knelt in front of the cell farthest from the entrance. By now they were almost shocked to see survivors and then two at once! One was dark-haired and eyed and looked at them watchfully, the other had probably blonde hair, though that was hard to tell with all the dirt caked into it. She stared at Lancelot hypnotically, bringing her face as close to the bars as possible. Suddenly she extended a slender arm towards his neck. His first instinct was to jump away, but she only grabbed his pendant that had slipped out from under his clothing.

"You're still wearing it." She whispered hoarsely, and to his most utter shock she spoke Sarmatian.

The dark-haired man looked at her as if he had just seen an army of extremely vicious ghosts and had been told to fight them with nothing but a blade of grass. She was no less surprised to see him here of all places.

"So, did your dream come true, Lancelot? Did you become a hero?" he almost flinched as the statement brought back a flood of memories that he had locked away in the deepest corner of his heart.

"No...not really." He mumbled absentmindedly, instinctively falling back into his native tongue. "Why on earth are you here, Iosante?"

"I'll tell you as soon as we're out of here."

"Of course." He mumbled and opened the cell. The Sarmatian woman cast a reassuring glance towards her newfound friend, then let herself be gently picked up by her brother. Arthur carried Guinevere. Near the entrance they met Galahad, whose face had taken on a greyish-green colour as he surveyed his surroundings.

"The villagers say that the soldiers caught another Woad yesterday."

"Nimue..." Guinevere pleaded. It was the first word she had uttered since when they had captured her friend the previous day. She first looked at Arthur, then at Galahad, before motioning towards the direction they had just come from.

"That way." She said, her voice so weak it was trailing off.

"Galahad, please have a look." Arthur requested, determined not to let any life go to waste if he had even the tiniest chance in saving it.

Galahad entered a smaller room in which a woman was hung up on the ceiling by the arms. She had also been gagged and had a blindfold on her eyes. Her head hung low, yet she was most definitely awake. The tenseness of her muscles betrayed her. Her back was streaked with bloody lines, the skin torn with a whip. Her hair was black and her skin still covered in the typical blue colour and adorned with the ornate patterns the Woads used. Hesitantly he put his torch in a mount on the wall. She tensed even more when she heard his footsteps approaching.

"I'm here to help you." He said soothingly, though his voice shook slightly. He cut loose both the gag and blindfold only to be met with the strangest eyes he had ever seen. Maybe the lighting conditions and artificially darkened colour of her skin added to the effect. Her eyes were of a silvery grey, but so light that it looked more like the absence of colour than an actual colour in its own right. They seemed to emit a bewildering glow from the inside. There was hardly another way to describe it: the Woad looked nothing short of demonic as she glowered at him.

He inspected her chains more closely, partly also to tear his gaze away from those imploring eyes. With a swing of his sword he undid the confinements. Her legs, suddenly struck by the full force of her weight again, gave way and let her stumble to the ground.

"Are you alright?" Galahad asked worriedly. She groaned, but clambered to her feet right away, pulling herself up with his help.

"Can you walk?" the knight inquired. She shot him an unreadable glance and attempted to march off, but swaying so badly that he decided to steady her. Putting her arm over his shoulders and securing her around the waist they began to make their way back towards daylight.

Tristan looked on extremely displeased as his comrades carried out half-dead person after person. This would only delay them. What good did it do to save a handful of lives for now if it meant that they would all die? Galahad was the last to emerge from Marcus Honorius' dungeon. He was supporting a blue-skinned woman who had the same kind of elaborate patterns drawn on her skin as the woman Arthur had carried outside.

"They're Woads." The scout stated, a hint of hostility subtly laced in his otherwise emotionless tone. The blue "devil ghost" flashed him a malevolent glare that clearly spelled out that he would surely have his throat slit if she had any say in the matter.

"They're also human beings." It wasn't so much the sentence itself that startled the scout, nor the ferocity of conviction with which it was being said, but rather the fact that for the first time in decades he heard his native language from someone he didn't know. The other Sarmatians looked at the frail woman who was cradled in Lancelot's arms with equal astonishment.

"What in the name of the gods...?" Bors began, his voice then trailing off as he realized he didn't really know how to word what he wanted to say.

"This is my sister." Lancelot explained matter-of-factly, the way he protectively drew her to him betraying his apparent calm.

"No, no, no! Stop what you are doing!" an enraged Marius screeched, "This girl is my slave. You have no right! They are all pagans here."

"So are we!" Galahad seethed. Marius paid no heed. The veins on his neck and forehead were pumping visibly and his face had taken on a dark purplish colour. Undeterred, the Roman continued in his crazed rant: "They refuse to do the task God has set for them. They must all die as an example!"

"You mean they refuse to be your serfs!" Arthur yelled, fuelled by righteous anger. Faced with the imposing warrior and six more ready to spring into action he redirected his wrath towards his wife, who was currently kneeling beside the red-haired healer.

"You!" he jeered, "You kept them alive!" then he hit her with full force, sending the slender lady flying through the air before landing hard on the muddy ground. Marius didn't even know what hit him when Arthur's fist in turn struck him down. Within heartbeats the Roman lord found himself with Excalibur aimed at his throat. Calling back his soldiers he then looked up at Arthur defiantly.

"You are a Roman, and you are a Christian. You ought to understand!" he pleaded.

"You disgust me." Arthur spat full of contempt for the pompous sadistic coward he ultimately identified this man to be.

"Well then, when we get to the wall you will be punished for this heresy." Marius sneered.

"Perhaps I should just kill you now and seal my fate." Arthur retorted, the steel of his sword digging deeper into Marius fleshy neck. Suddenly the man didn't seem so sure of himself anymore.

The two monks stood in the doorway that led to the dungeon dejectedly, clearly overpowered by the situation.

"I was willing to die with them ... yes ... to guide their souls to their rightful place." One of them explained with a fanatical glint in his eyes. "It is God's wish that these sinners be sacrificed. Only then can their souls be saved."

Arthur regarded the man for a moment, attempting to grasp the twisted thoughts behind this scheme. He could not, however, and resigned himself to deal with the more pressing tasks.

"Then I shall grant his wish." He said with dangerous collectedness. "Wall them back up." He commanded, "And get going as quickly as possible."

Given the chance it was likely the villagers would have lynched the self-proclaimed holy men on the spot. A few men roughly shoved the lamenting monks back into the hellish place they had created and began the task Arthur had ordered with vigour. In the meantime Dagonet and the Roman lady, Fulcinia, saw to it that the former prisoners were placed in one of the wagons and their multiple injuries attended to. Galahad was still supporting the Woad warrior. Both had watched the scene unfolding before them with intrigue, only now concentrating on themselves again.

"Wait." She said quietly, but with a determination that left no room for argument when he attempted to lead her off to join the other women in the carriage. She whistled loudly, a sharp and piercing sound, upon which a dark grey horse came galloping out of the forest and nearby and straight towards its mistress. She cooed at the loyal animal and patted its head affectionately.

"Forgive me, but I don't think it would be advisable to ride in your state." Galahad remarked upon now seeing her torn and bloodied back in broad daylight. How she could even stand up straight with such wounds was beyond him.

"Thank you, but I am quite alright." She replied curtly, her displeasure at being patronised shining through all too clearly.

"Suit yourself lady, but someone ought to have a look at that back of yours." Gawain cut in gruffly. She didn't allow the searing pain she must have been feeling cross her features. It was indeed wearing her out, yet she would never admit to an own weakness. Instead she gritted her teeth, mounted the horse and rode up beside the wagon that held her friend for whom she had originally come here.

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_Questions? Suggestions? Feedback? Doesn't that review button look extremely pressable today?_


	3. Chapter 3

_By the way, if anyone is good at coming up with chapter names feel free to contact me. I generally suck at that. _

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_**The Dungeon Birds**_

_3._

It had begun to snow. The train was moving along the narrow paths that wound through the mountains. Arthur halted his horse on a site that allowed him a relatively free view of the tail of their caravan. The Saxon war drums could be heard faintly. Lancelot halted his horse next to his friend.

"We're moving too slow." The dark-haired knight exclaimed.

"We're not leaving anyone behind." Arthur stated firmly.

"If the Saxons find us we will have to fight!"

"Then save your anger for them!" Arthur retorted harshly, every inch the commander, though his features softened again instantly.

"Look, I think I understand ... that girl, she is Sarmatian as well, no?"

"My sister; she gave me this before I left home." Lancelot replied plangently and regarded his pendant.

"I see why you are angered. She should not have been treated this way. None of them should have." He sighed heavily. "With a bit of luck we'll make it to the wall before the Saxons and you all will receive your discharge papers." He stated, though it was visible that he did not really believe in his own words. Lancelot choked back a snide comment and turned his horse towards the path again, riding off to his sister.

Iosante was sitting in the wagon's entrance, regarding the passing landscape. The chill winds didn't seem to faze her even though she was thoroughly emaciated.

"How are you?" Lancelot asked cautiously and for lack of a better opener.

"Well enough, better once I get to clean all this dirt off me." She said, critically eyeing a strand of her greasy hair. She shook it off and stretched out her hand to Lancelot's horse.

"Hey there, remember me?" she mumbled while the animal playfully nudged her hand. Without preparation, Iosante began to speak, quietly at first but then clearer and louder as emotion laced through her voice.

"Some years after you left the Romans came back and took our brother Lamorak. He was sent to Germania I think, to serve at another Roman wall called the Limes. Mama was devastated. Losing two sons was almost too much for her to cope with. Fortunately she got pregnant again; otherwise I fear she would have died of grief. Unfortunately she died in childbirth then and father never was the same again. He fell in a skirmish with some Alani later, leaving Masite and me alone. A young Alani warrior decided he wanted to rule all tribes and those who refused were murdered or sold as slaves." Here she paused, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose, then tiredly rubbing her eyes. Lancelot was about to say something when she cut him off, continuing with her account.

"We went through many hands, travelled across the length and width of the continent, until we were separated in Rome. I have no idea where our sister is now. I was bought by some filthy rich noble of their church, who had me shipped to this wretched place on the spot. The first few days I managed to hold my temper in check, but you know me, brother. I'm not cut out for slavery. Since then I have been sitting in that dungeon, until today." She ended. Lancelot swallowed hard. This was obviously a very slimmed down account and he didn't dare think about what ordeals his siblings must have been through. He would have wept for his parents – his poor, loving mother, his strong, proud father – and his brother and sisters, equally as enslaved as he, if the service to Rome here would not have dried up all his tears. Finally regaining his countenance he reached for her hand and squeezed it affectionately. Words evaded him at this point and she was most obviously weakened. Later there would be opportunity enough to talk. Iosante understood the simple gesture as she had always understood her beloved older brother without words. For a moment the illusion was perfect; as if nothing had ever torn them apart.

"I missed you, too." She breathed before leaning a bit back into the wagon again. "And I'm so glad you're here."

Nimue paid no heed to the villagers dispersing in fear when she rode by them. It was her intention to look intimidating. On the battlefield it had helped her many a times to shake her foe's countenance, allowing her to deliver lethal blow after blow while the enemy would wonder what kind of demon they were up against. Her back was killing her, and by now so was her jaw, so firmly had she clenched it in order not to cry out in agony. Yet her pain only fuelled her anger which in turn gave her the energy and determination to combat it.

Guinevere hadn't been conscious the first time, so Nimue had scaled all the way to the beginning of the caravan, encountering the scout again. He mustered her with the most utter distrust and hostility, a sentiment which she willingly returned. Nevertheless they were all on the same side for now. _There's nothing as uniting as a common enemy_, she thought wryly before addressing the scout.

"The Saxons have destroyed several villages in the north already. There are barely enough survivors left to tell the tale."

Without taking his eyes off the trail in front of them he said: "Can't be worse than your lot."

"You all better hope they're not, for when it comes to fighting them you'll need all your skill, strength and a generous amount of luck as well."

He snorted dismissively, not letting it show through how entertaining he found her deductions. Tristan could have told her that upon reaching the wall he and his brothers-in-arms would be free men and she and her fellow Woads could play `Slay-the-Saxon´ all they wanted, but that would have been no fun. As far as he was concerned the Woads could do whatever they fancied on this hellish island of theirs, as long as he didn't have to deal with it anymore.

"You're not bothering me to tell me horror stories of plundering hordes." He stated.

"Correct." She answered with a teasing tone. If she was going to turn this into a guessing game he was not going to go along. Instead Tristan did what he did best: he kept silent.

"You're Arthur Castus' trusted scout, no?" she continued, her tone acquiring more mockery with every syllable. "If so I take it you deduced the route we are now on?"

"..."

"A poor job, truly." She stated cryptically, eliciting an annoyed look from Tristan.

"Well, it's the only way leading east from the Roman pig's estate that is made for wagons and such, still it will lead us into disaster." She prophesied much more cheerfully than would be adequate to her words.

"So?" he snapped irritably.

"So you don't know these lands very well. I do; and I know that this trail leads directly into a lake."

Tristan looked shocked even for his usual collect manner. If that was true they were all doomed, just as he had told Arthur before.

"Why would a road lead into a lake?" he asked, daring the Woad to play around with him on such things.

"Then again with the weather we've had these past few weeks it might be frozen." She said without missing a beat and completely ignoring his question, then turned her horse and galloped off towards the end of the caravan. The red streaks on her back glistened moistly against her darkened skin. Tristan shook his head lightly and rode off to inspect the way ahead.

Nimue slowed her horse when she reached the wagon with the injured former prisoners again. Peeking through its side wall her silver eyes were met with Guinevere's dark ones. She allowed a rare smile to creep onto her face and spoke softly to her friend: "Found you."

"I wish we were children again, playing hide and seek in the woods." Guinevere mused as the familiar expression brought back cherished childhood memories.

"Instead we unite with our mortal enemies against an even more lethal one."

"Nim..." the other Woad began, but a coughing fit cut her off.

"It's alright, Guin. If fate wills it all will turn out well in the end. Rest now, my friend." She replied tenderly. She was very aware of the dozens of eyes that observed them all from within the dense forest. Their countrymen were always close and had been from the moment the caravan left the Roman's estate. There was just one more thing to tell her friend right now.

"Your father will be glad to be reunited with you again tonight."

Arthur nodded at Gawain, who led Dagonet's horse while the huge healer was in the wagon, tending to the prisoners. His entering the vehicle diminished what little space there was even further, so he tried to move as cautiously as possible. Lancelot's sister was huddled in one corner, her arms protectively wrapped around the boy who in turn used his good arm to caress his unconscious sister's red hair. Dagonet sat opposite the Briton villager, the Roman lady next to him, as he prepared herbs and potions against fever and inflammation. The Woad sat on the other side of the wagon, dreamily gazing outside. There must have been a conversation going on before he entered, probably between the two Sarmatians as he hadn't understood it from the outside. However they fell quiet immediately. He let his eyes wander over the women and the child, assessing their state, then cast a questioning glance at the healer. "How are they?"

"Iosante here has a broken leg. Nothing that won't heal in time, but she won't be able to walk at all during the next few weeks, possibly even months." Dagonet explained, motioning towards the Sarmatian woman, who gave Arthur a kind, if weak, smile. "The same with Lucan here and his arm, though he is young. It will heal quicker. The village girl,"

"Maeve!" the boy exclaimed with vehemence, demanding his sister be respected no matter what.

"Right, Maeve here is more complicated. Two or three ribs are broken, which might have resulted in internal injuries. She is the most weakened of them all. And she burns. At this point I can't tell with certainty whether she is going to make it through or not. We will know more tomorrow." He wrapped up his report. The little boy visibly willed back tears and Lancelot's sister comforted him immediately.

"Brave boy." Dagonet acknowledged and then turned towards the Woad with a frown. "She wouldn't let me near her. By the looks of it her hand is hurt, maybe broken."

Mirroring his friend's expression Arthur turned to her. She scooted away and gave him a defiant stare. Unimpressed, he reached for the hand, which had taken on a dark purple-bluish colouration.

"Some of your fingers are dislocated. They either have to be put back into place or you may never use your hand properly again." He assessed sombrely. Deciding that it would be better to get it over and done with as long as she didn't struggle he quickly grabbed her slender fingers more tightly, causing her to gasp in surprise at the sudden pain. With a sickening sound the bones clicked back into their proper places. Guinevere bit down hard on her lips at first, then gritted her teeth so tightly they ground on each other. Still she could not avoid the odd whimper escaping her mouth. All the while she kept her gaze trained steadily on Arthur's face, her uninjured hand clawing into the fabric of his cloak.

Feat accomplished, the commander of the Sarmatian knights turned to leave, but was held back vehemently.

"They tortured me... us... with machines... made us tell them things we didn't know to begin with... made us admit sins we had never committed..." she began with raw, breaking voice, as if to make him understand what kind of beasts in human shape his Roman, Christian countrymen were. She only barely caught herself in time before giving too much away, before displaying too much weakness. "I'm Guinevere." She stated much more firmly. "You are Arthur of the knights from the Great Wall. My father has told me grand tales about you, the famous Briton who kills his own people." She stated, but without the accusation one might have expected.

"You should rest." Arthur said and pried her fingers off his shoulder, then turned to Dagonet who had been watching the exchange quietly. "We'll have to camp for the night soon." He informed the healer before leaving the wagon.

Gawain was still riding next to the wagon, leading Dagonet's horse along when Galahad came to join him.

"That Woad," the young knight mused and nodded towards Nimue, who rode a frog's leap ahead of them, wearing her injuries like a trophy, "She disturbs me greatly. Any normal person would be writhing on the ground with wounds like that."

Apparently the person in question had overheard his comment, for her head snapped around and she pierced him with her intense gaze. Turning her horse around to face them she halted it right in the middle of the way, not caring about the people who had to scurry around it now. In this way she waited with unnerving calm until the two knights passed her. A small, humourless smirk tugged at her lips as she dryly remarked: "We are the blue demons who eat their enemies alive. Who drinks a foes blood while it is still warm and pumping absorbs his strength. There's nothing normal about me." She declared confidently.

"So we witness." Gawain retorted equally as dryly.

"My name is Nimue." She stated, causing the younger knight to blink in surprise. That woman was unpredictable.

"Gawain." The blond knight introduced himself, as manners dictated, and then his comrade. "This is Galahad."

"Well, Sir Galahad, I failed to express my gratitude for your assistance earlier. Allow me to make up for that now: I thank you for freeing me from my chains and hope for the opportunity to repay the debt one day."

"You are welcome." Galahad replied thickly, not knowing what to make of this strange woman. Having successfully delivered her concern she turned the horse again and cantered off, no doubt to find someone else to pester, put off and intrigue.

Galahad's gaze followed her retreating form for a moment before turning to his comrade and friend again.

"See what I mean?" he inquired.

"Completely."

* * *

_Questions? Suggestions? You know the drill. (The review button will feel neglected and become suicidal.) Any character, movie original or OC, you think is underrespresented up until now? Whom would you like to read more of (and why)? I'm not asking this for mere entertainment. It's all part of my inspiration process._


	4. Chapter 4

_Yay, Next installment, but before I can let you to the story I'm gonna have to scold you all a little. During the first few days after posting the first three chapters this story received some 200 hits, but not a single review? Come on, folks, there's no reason to be so timid. My computer skills are very limited so I won't hack your addresses from the net and suddenly show up at your door to terrorize you. So far there have only been three people considerate/brave enough to put this on their Alert lists (about which I'm thrilled, btw). Now, their mail account on this site is accesible to me and I might turn out to be slightly psychotic and terrorize them. Then again I might not, don't want to scare anyone, really, but I'm kinda getting too much into the character of Nimue at the moment. What do you all think about her by the way? Or any of the others for that matter?_

_Anyway, take the previous ramblings to heart and enjoy! Both means a lot to me. It really does._

* * *

4.

Dagonet frowned gravely upon the feverish form of the young villager. He was doing what he could, the little boy's pleading eyes never leaving him, but apparently his efforts didn't amount to much. He had his own supplies and the girl's, which her aunt had given him prior to departure, to work with. Before being abducted by Marius' soldiers she had assembled quite a lot of herbs and potions, the most suitable of which he now used to bring down her fever and back her strength. The latter was actually his most urgent concern. As weakened and emaciated as the Briton village healer was she had to be carefully nursed back to health. She had in fact refused what little food Fulcinia had managed to sneak in for her in favour of her brother, so Iosante had told him. Now, for anything in the direction of getting better to take place she first had to wake up. That was the most important thing right now. To his relief Dagonet had by now discerned that her internal organs with great certainty were intact, which gave him some hope.

"There's nothing you can do here at the moment. Go and catch a breath of fresh air. Clear your mind." Iosante advised while dabbing some small beads of sweat from Maeve's forehead. "If her will to survive is strong enough she'll make it." The Sarmatian woman argued softly. "Go. I'll send Gawain to fetch you should there be any change in her state."

Gawain had actually been riding next to the wagon with Dagonet's horse for the past few hours and had exchanged some words with Lancelot's sister along the way. The blond knight would in fact be more than pleased to stay behind and deepen that conversation with her. Dagonet chanced a look around the wagon's inside. Lucan was slowly but surely falling asleep in Iosante's lap. He had made some makeshift bandages for their broken limbs earlier, after relocating the bones to their proper position where it had been necessary. Fulcinia was walking outside along with her son while Guinevere sat perched in the open front of the wagon. The Woad's fingers were returning to a normal colour again already. She also didn't need his assistance anymore. The village girl remained unchanged. Time and again a ragged sigh or especially laboured breath among the otherwise shallow ones would escape her dried lips and that was about it. They had tried to make her drink without choking the girl. Only time would show whether it was of any use. Iosante was right. There was nothing more here that he could do at the moment.

With a heavy sigh he nodded towards Iosante and clambered outside, mounting his horse. Taking the reins from Gawain he inhaled the crisp, chilly air deeply and took off after another nod to his brother-in-arms.

Nimue was restlessly scaling up and down the caravan of people, always stopping by to exchange a few words with Guinevere whenever she passed the wagon. Something drew her irrevocably towards the knights however. The scout she had already managed to throw off countenance, and that merely with a well-meant piece of advice. Perhaps it was the fascination to see a much-reviled and dreaded enemy for what they essentially were: human. Humans with unique personalities, strengths and flaws. It was at least two more hours until nightfall and then one more until it definitely got too dark to move on. Lancelot had taken up the place next to Bors. He had learned so many down casting facts today that he needed someone to cheer him up. Who would be better suited for such a quest than the boisterous, yet good-natured giant with the booming laughter? He was just smiling weakly at an old anecdote when he noticed a dark shadow in the corner of his eye. He whirled around, hand already on the hilt of his dagger, to find himself face to face with the other Woad woman. Nimue grinned cheekily for no apparent reason.

"Well, well, well," she began with the most unnerving, condescending, casual tone, "Without the whole wielding weapons and battle cries suddenly the fabled Sarmatian Knights are only half as imposing."

If she meant to irk them she was more than successful. Bors growled like an aggravated bear and Lancelot barely refrained from making her pay for such insolence right away. Instead he opted for downplaying it by simply snorting dismissively. He would not give this rebel the satisfaction of seeing him affected by her comment.

"Oh, you think I mean to insult you, sirs?" she instantly picked up the mood, "For that is not the case. I was merely making a statement."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be entrusted with diplomatic missions." Lancelot suggested irritably.

"Would the insult be perceived as less severe if I explained that the half of legendary still amounts to enough to make for stories that can scare the little children into submission? Don't assume I don't know how lethal you can be. I know it well, _Two Blades_. I owe you this." At this she pointed to a rather large scar that ran almost parallel with her right collar bone, ending dangerously close to the heart.

"We met before?" Lancelot inquired, visibly surprised, "When?"

"In a skirmish some seven years ago, less than a day's ride north-east of the wall."

Lancelot racked his brain trying to remember the incident. She did seem somewhat familiar, he just couldn't place it. Pensively, his gaze dropped and fell on the hilt of the dagger that stuck in her boot. His expression lit up in recognition immediately and he grinned humourlessly.

"Then I owe you this." He replied lowly and tugged down the collar of his tunic to reveal an equally as vicious looking scar that ran down the side of his neck and down to his own collarbone.

"Guess we can call it quits then." She shrugged it off after inspecting her `work´ somewhat proudly.

"Not quite," Lancelot replied and drew a dagger from his belt. Regarding it pensively for a moment he then held it out to the Woad, showing the hilt that was absolutely identical to the one of the dagger in her boot. "I believe this used to be yours then." Back then the weapon had remained firmly embedded in his shoulder, only barely missing his lungs. Assuming to have killed the Woad back then he had kept it ever since as a reminder of his own mortality and to never underestimate the enemy. She took it gingerly and inspected it from all sides, as if marvelling at a rare object. Then she turned the dagger over to him again with the words: "It's yours, sir. You survived and thus duly earned it."

Bors, who had kept surprisingly quiet throughout the entire episode, snorted derisively. Nimue leaned forward on her horse to fixate him with her gaze, bringing the vicious red whip marks on her back into focus for Lancelot in the process.

"I want you to imagine something." She began lowly, her voice holding the slightest hint of hostility. "If your homeland was under siege, as mine is now; if you were made a slave in your own country, as my people are, would you not fight your oppressor, as we do? I do not blame you personally for Rome's rule and I do not judge you for fighting on their side, but when I am being attacked I will fight back, no matter against whom." That being said she turned her horse around and galloped off. Lancelot raised an eyebrow at her retreating form, then at his fellow knight, and lastly while eyeing the Celtic dagger in his hand. "Now Bors it seems like you don't even need words anymore to offend the ladies." He remarked ironically. His comrade deadpanned. "Don't get to cosy with the Inish. Fraternising with the enemy has never helped in any war."

"I'm surprised you know such big words as `fraternising´." Lancelot teased evilly, "Got that from Arthur, right? Well, anyway, I think I find this girl rather intriguing. What was that other saying our dear commander likes to use? `Know thy enemy´."

Iosante tugged at her ragged remains of a skirt displeasedly for what had to be the millionth time in a row before answering the blond knight's previous question.

"No, the Huns attacked more fiercely with every passing year and with Rome snatching away our finest young warriors there was simply no chance to withstand them over time. It was only natural that some tribes and clans would try to ally themselves with the Huns."

"But turning on their own people? There is no honour in that!" Gawain bristled at the report.

"Trabagast of the Alani simply decided that it would be really sweet if he ruled the Sarmatians. I do not claim to know that tyrant's motives; all I know is that he managed to assemble a sufficient band of warriors around him and went pillaging whichever settlement they came across, regardless of tribe. He is even said to have murdered his own relatives in cold blood." Iosante went on wryly. She did not hold back on grisly details like she had done previously with her brother, whom she had wanted to spare the mental images and whose pointless outrage she did not want to provoke. What good would it have done anyway? Their clan, save for themselves and perhaps their siblings, had been obliterated. There was nothing Lancelot could have changed about that now. The other knights, like Gawain, were only hoping for news from their homeland. She cast another worried glance towards the unconscious red head in the wagon, who had shifted slightly in her feverish nightmares.

"This tribe has always been a ruthless and bloodthirsty lot. It's a known fact. Your scout," Iosante began, peering through to the head of the long train of refugees, "He's Alani as well."

"Tristan is alright, although the ruthless and bloodthirsty part I can and will not deny. Nevertheless, he's alright." The tawny haired knight replied, trying to appease the woman's hostility towards his comrade.

"I would really fancy to know," a slightly strained voice from the other side of the wagon sounded, "what you Sarmatians are talking about." The voice belonged to Nimue, who had been riding there and quietly conversing with Guinevere in Gaelic. The speaker had cocked her head to the side and wore a challenging expression while the Woad in the wagon rolled her eyes.

"You're about as subtle as a thunderstorm." Guinevere scolded under her breath, as always to no avail.

"Well, Mistress Nimue, what were you conversing about?" Gawain retorted in a tone that was just barely still within the realms of neutrality. Nimue grinned triumphantly.

"Finally someone who is a worthy sparring partner with words as well as with blades." She stated with satisfaction.

"Oh, I'm quite sure not many are worthy of your sharp tongue." The knight replied sarcastically and demonstratively turned back to his fellow Sarmatian again. Even if the news she brought were less than good no one would spoil his enjoyment in indulging in his native tongue.

"You're insufferable!" Guinevere sighed. "Go and hassle someone else."

"As you wish, my friend." Nimue answered good-naturedly before adding: "I just found it sounded so nice, the way the words formed melody and rhythm. Curiosity, as far as I know, is not yet considered a crime."

"It isn't, but you are not exactly ..." Guinevere pondered for a moment for the right word to put her criticism more diplomatically. "... diplomatic." She ended lamely. "I swear, one day you'll push someone over the edge with your antics and have that impudent tongue of yours cut out."

Nimue chuckled dryly in response and drove her horse forward.

They made camp at nightfall. Iosante found herself faced with the near impossible task of walking while not putting any weight on the broken leg. The Roman lady, Fulcinia, oversaw the set-up of some tents that would house her family for the short night ahead. The villagers were busy with arranging their own accommodations and the knights, by Arthur's order, were securing the nearer vicinity of the campsite. The boy behind her in the wagon was still asleep; his sister still without conscience and Guinevere had jumped onto Nimue's horse behind the other Woad as soon as the knight's had been out of view. Now the reason she would even want to get off the vehicle was that there was the promise of a bath waiting in one of the tents. Iosante hardly remembered what it felt like to be clean. To her it seemed as if the grease and grime of the past weeks (months?) in the dungeon were so deeply ingrained into the structure of her skin that it would be impossible to scrub away. Thus, she sat perched on the highest step in the wagon's entrance, moodily staring out into the black night and fidgeted with the fabric of her torn clothing. To be made to wear a skirt! At home she would have been dressed in breeches and nobody would take objection, but her oh-so-civilised masters had found that custom of her people terribly improper. When was the last time she had sat on horseback, wielding a sword or aimed and shot an arrow? She missed her freedom so dearly, a dull ache that had not subsided over the past years, and she was beyond joy to have found not only countrymen but her adored brother again.

Though caught up in her ponderings the Sarmatian never neglected her watch over the village healer. Maeve shifted behind her. That in itself was nothing new, but now the young woman also drew a few ragged breaths and groaned softly. Alert, Iosante spun around and crawled back to take a closer look at the patient as fast as her leg would allow. Maeve's eyelids fluttered and her pale face twisted in discomfort. Her dry lips moved without emitting any sound and suddenly her grey-green eyes flew wide open. Taking in her surroundings her face assumed a panicked expression. She croaked pitifully, obviously trying to say something. Iosante quickly snatched Dagonet's water bottle and set it on the red head's lips, who only barely could refrain herself from greedily gulping down the soothing liquid.

"Easy," she instructed her former cell mate, "We are free from Roman dungeon."

"Lucan!" the Briton rasped worriedly.

"Will be fine and is right next to you." The Sarmatian calmed the flustered woman, then handed her a piece of bread along with the instruction `Eat!´ and turned to the open side of the wagon again, her eyes searching the camp for Dagonet preferably or at least Gawain or her brother, these three actually being the only ones of her countrymen besides Tristan she knew by name up until now. They were nowhere in sight, but Galahad wandered by just that very instant and was immediately called upon by a very agitated Iosante.

"Have you seen Dagonet?" she demanded breathlessly. The youngest knight shook his head.

"Dammit!" she exclaimed passionately, then turned to the knight again. "Can you fetch him for me please? Tell him our patient has finally awoken."

"Really?" Galahad inquired in disbelief and attempted peering into the dark insides of the wagon.

"No, I just take pleasure in bossing you around." She teased, reminding him an awful lot of her older brother in that manner. "Yes, really. Now if you please?"

"Sure." Galahad said and dashed off to find their healer.

* * *

_One final remark: It is in fact empirically proven, and not only by me, that feedback raises motivation among fanfiction authors and makes them update faster. It also adds to the quality of the story. Really. I'm not making this up!_


	5. Chapter 5

_There, hope it turned out alright. Especially for scoli727, who was so kind as to point this out to me: _

_In the previous chapter there was the line "Guess we can call it quits then.", said by Nimue to Lancelot. Replace it with "Let's say we're even then." (or something like that) to eradicate that cheeky anachronism. _

_Now, go on and enjoy!_

* * *

5.

Tristan returned cursing inwardly and immediately sought out his commander in the makeshift camp to inform him that the bloody Woad had been right on all accounts. There was a lake of considerable size, its surface was frozen solid and they were headed straight for it. That was not a good thing. At all. At least the Saxon war drums had been suspended for the night as they couldn't be heard in the distance anymore. The half-Briton commander of the Sarmatian knights looked troubled and distressed beyond health as he strode through the encampment, only stopping when his eyes fell upon the drawn features of his scout. Tristan relayed his findings to Arthur, who in turn looked as if he would much rather walk on hot coals than lead this mass of people into what must have seemed like certain demise.

"And the ice?" he asked tiredly.

"Should be thick enough to carry us, provided we have the people move carefully."

"Did you see Woads on your patrol?"

"No. Why?"

"Apparently ours are gone without a trace."

Tristan scoffed. He had not really expected otherwise from that treacherous lot. Enemy stays enemy.

"The trees here have eyes." He remarked to his commander before he hurried away.

* * *

"Ow Bryn, a little tenderness would be appreciated!" Nimue hissed at the young Woad healer who was currently tending to her whip marks before directing her attention towards Merlin and Guinevere again. An educated onlooker might have recognized the young Briton with the boyishly handsome face as the son of one of the fortress' farmers.

"The other elders are going to put up a strong opposition to such a bold plan." Guinevere stated, continuing the previously begun discussion, and her friend added: "That's right. We have been enemies since long before our grandparents were even born."

"And even if we could persuade our people to fight alongside the Sarmatians I don't see a great probability of them sharing that sentiment. Too many of their brothers fell at our hands." Bryn the healer remarked between evading his patient's well-aimed punches. The old Woad leader raised his hands for the three to let him speak.

"The crucial point is rather their faith and trust in their commander. Will they follow Arthur or not?" Merlin questioned, rhetorically, plangently.

"We know their allegiance to each other is unrivalled. We have witnessed it often enough. How many times has Arthur Castus led his knights into battle, circled, outmanned, and still succeeded?" Nimue pointed out, a slight trace of admiration lacing through her voice. Bryn snorted and Guinevere argued: "On the other hand the Sarmatians are to be discharged once we reach Hadrian's Wall. Their service to Rome is over. Will they still feel inclined to stay and fight in a land not their own?"

"Besides they are but seven men altogether whereas the Saxon army has some two thousand warriors. Would the knights of the Round Table even make such a significant difference? I doubt it, Merlin, and I've seen them fight." Bryn quipped again.

"Arthur," the old druid said decidedly, "Is who it all comes down to. He is the legend that will fuel our people's spirits. He must fight for his homeland and you must persuade him to do so!" he ended with a fierce glint in his wise eyes and laid an old, bony hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Now I need your honest opinion." He said to the three youngsters in front of him. "Can we win Arthur Castus for our cause? And will his knights follow him?"

"Yes and most likely yes." Guinevere answered matter-of-factly. Merlin's eyes searched for the healer's.

"If anyone can win him over it would be Guin, so yes. As for the other thing: Given Arthur is with us I say yes." Bryn assessed. The druid's eyes wandered to the last of his young confidantes who wore her typical unwilling expression.

"From what I know and have witnessed recently I'd say no to both, probably not. Also I don't like it. This may be Arthur's fight, but is not that of the Sarmatians. Honestly, I think he is too much Roman and not enough Briton and his knights would rather leave sooner than later." She heaved a deep sigh before continuing, withstanding the druid's hardened eyes. It was not the first and would not be the last time she represented an unpopular opinion and spoke back to the man who had raised her along with his own daughter. "Merlin, you know I would do anything you ask, but this feels too much like exploitation. I do not think we have the right to drag anyone into this who is as much a subject to Roman oppression as are we." She elaborated.

"Your concern is noted." Merlin replied coolly. "You know the plan, girls."

* * *

"How do you feel?" Dagonet asked softly as he stuck his huge head into the wagon. Maeve cradled her dozing brother in her arms and smiled weakly.

"Like having been under a horse stampede and so hungry I could swallow an ox." Maeve said meekly, "Apart from that I'm ... free." Her eyes, while still being slightly glazed over, held a sharply intelligent gleam in their green hues.

"Some of your ribs are broken." The Sarmatian healer began to explain but was quickly interrupted by the red head. "Bottom three on the left and four on the right side. I know. I ... felt." She paused, drawing a deep breath and wincing at the pain the expanding of her lungs caused in her ribcage. "You did a good job on my brother's arm." She remarked appreciatively and stroked the little boy's scraggly hair. "I was in my cell when they did it. By the sound of it I feared they had ripped it clean off." She began softly, the trauma of her ordeal quietly shining through.

"You are both safe now. Arthur Castus and the knights of the Round Table guarantee it." Dagonet spoke on behalf of his commander and comrades.

"We are indebted to you, Sir ...?"

"Dagonet."

"You remind me of our father, Sir Dagonet." She mused after chewing and swallowing a bite of stale bread.

"I'll see to it that you get some more food. You are starved. And I shall go and tell your aunt that you have awoken." Dagonet declared and shifted uneasily at the affection that shone through.

"Thank you, Sir Dagonet." Maeve said sincerely.

* * *

"Do you always gawk at bathing women or only the ones you fancy?" Nimue quipped at a stunned congregation of Sarmatian knights plus their half-Briton commander. Indeed from their place around a still rather small campfire they had an exceedingly good view of the bathing tent Lady Fulcinia had set up. The tent fabric was thin, the light on the inside painting the silhouettes of the former prisoners on it as they scrubbed layer after layer of grime off their skin. A few heads snapped around to the Woad woman, as she seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Galahad visibly coloured as he had done when he was a child and had been caught at something forbidden. Gawain's and Lancelot's expressions remained unreadable. Obviously Nimue had already cleaned herself off, as the blue paint was gone and revealed what was underneath it. She looked different without the woad staining her otherwise pale skin. Before her appearance had been more outlandish, otherworldly, feral almost and it had been easier to regard her more as a hostile creature than a fellow human being, let alone speak of femininity. Now it became clear that she was actually quite pretty with her perfectly oval shaped face and symmetrical features. Her hair was allowed to flow freely now. Reaching way past the shoulders it was of such a dark black that it even put the starless night sky to shame. She also wore a simple tunic, fur vest and woollen cloak over her warrior's gear now since it had become freezing cold with nightfall.

"Where were you?" Arthur bit out harshly, referring to the Woads' earlier disappearance.

"Paying my respects to the gods that they let my friend and I survive." Arthur stiffened subtly and Tristan's eyes shot up, concealed by his hair, aiming to detect any insincerity in her voice. He didn't believe her.

"That, and then this." She continued and produced a few rabbits and birds from underneath her cloak. The animals bore clean arrow wounds. Apparently she had been hunting. "This is my way of saying thank you, so you better enjoy them." She remarked with finality, a bright grin gracing her features. Nothing like a plan that was well thought through, Nimue mused inwardly. Now let Guin bring on her charm offense. This better work out, for all this scheming and intrigue was the complete contrary of her otherwise blunt and direct nature.

* * *

The fire had grown and drawn more and more people towards its comforting warmth. Admittedly, the delectable smell of roasting wildlife might have added to the allure. Lancelot was flanked by his commander and best friend on one side and by his sister on the other. Next to her sat Gawain, then Galahad and Tristan. On Arthur's other side were Bors, Dagonet, Maeve and her brother as well as the Roman lady, her son and Jols. Through some dark twist of fate Nimue had come to take the place next to the scout and both exchanged subtle glares and challenging glances throughout the evening. Guinevere sat next to her friend and opposite Arthur. The mood was rather mellow considering the circumstances. Using all their charm and powers of gentle persuasion (and a generous amount of pouting on part of the youngest knight) the Sarmatians had managed to convince Iosante to tell a story from their homeland.

"Good, but I need you translate into the Latin." She declared, anticipation gleaming in her eyes. And thus she began, the strange but also strangely melodic words of her native tongue weaving through the crisp night air.

"This is how the mighty Sarmatians came into being. According to legend the vast steppes were home to many tribes, but none as notorious, feared and renowned, none as legendary as the ruthless Scythians – fierce warriors who drank their foe's blood and made golden drinking goblets out of their skulls – and the mythical Amazons – warring women known to be so though that no man in his right mind would have wandered into their realms voluntarily. In fact the Amazons did not allow men into their society. It was only ever so often that they would go on raids among other tribes and mate with their best warriors before burning everything down they could not use. The Scythians were equally as powerful and destructive, ferocious fighters who made the skin of those they had killed into reins for their horses, among other things."

Everyone hung on her lips by now, even though it had been Lancelot translating the words. The boy Lucan had scooted ever closer to his sister with every gory detail and the two Romans looked mildly appalled. Iosante took a small sip of water before continuing, Gawain now taking over the part of translation, a task in which he would be succeeded by Galahad and then Dagonet during the story.

"Inevitably, these most powerful peoples of the steppes became rivals. Many fights took place, but never did any side gain an advantage over the other. It was then that the queen of the Amazons and the King of the Scythians decided to meet on neutral ground, wanting to sort this out once and for all. Both monarchs were undisputedly the most skilled and fearsome warriors of their respective tribes, and they chose the ten next best to accompany them. Eleven duels to the death were to take place that day under the scorching sun of the steppe, and only one tribe was to emerge victorious. The fights commenced simultaneously and the onlookers would cry out at every blow being dealt, and there were many blows that day. The twenty-two warriors fought with all their might. They poured sweat and oozed blood until the formerly dry ground beneath their feet had turned into sticky mud, but no decision could be reached. When the sun rose again on the fourth day they called it a truce as no side had been able to exceed their adversaries' skills in horsemanship, archery or with the sword.

"_My King Sogdan of the powerful Scythians,"_ spoke the Amazonian queen then, _"I see your men are strong and excel at every discipline." _

"_My Queen Sarmatine of the mighty Amazons,"_ replied he, _"And I see your ladies are as beautiful as they are skilled." _

"_There have never before been a people of warriors to match our strength. You truly are worthy of life."_ She said, and it was the grandest compliment she could have given, for the Amazons usually killed their men after conceiving the next generation of children to sustain their tribe and they kept only the daughters while killing the sons.

The Scythian king bowed his head in deep respect before giving his response. _"And truly I am honoured, my Queen. Never before have there been women to bear their weapons so justly."_

Thus the Scythians and Amazons made peace. The queen and king then reigned their peoples together and led them to great fame and glorious victories. The queen of the Amazons, and now also the Scythians, bore her husband children, namely ten sets of twins. These children became the heirs to the vast empire of their parents, and each went forth with their most trusted and valued friends. This new people, half Scythian, half Amazon, became known as the Sarmatians, and the twenty twin siblings lent their names to the tribes they founded. Here I'll need your help." Iosante said to the knights, who nodded mutely.

"There were ten sons and ten daughters." The Sarmatian woman stated, holding up her fingers for illustration. "And their names go as follows: Aorsan and Rhoxolan, Iazygas and..."

"Venedeas." Bors threw in.

"Navar." Gawain quipped. Iosante smiled appreciatively before she went on.

"Gython and Nesiot, Iaxamatos and Careotas and Arsieto were the sons and the daughters were Siraca and Alane,"

"Maeotis and Cercetao," Lancelot offered.

"Galinde and Isonda, Tanaite..."

"...and Pagyrita," it came from Galahad.

"Tyramba..." said Dagonet

"...and Sargate." Iosante ended eventually. The minds of the present Britons and Romans swam with the overload of information and the compelling tale while the knights felt transported back to a time when they would sit around the fire with their clans and their mothers would recount this and many more tales of their people.

* * *

_Yay, our knights getting in touch with their roots again! _

_The names I derived from actual Sarmatian tribes (only a very subjective selection though) as stated by the all-knowing wikipedia. I shall spare you a complete list at this point, because the names are not that greatly altered. If you are interested however don't hesitate to contact me and I'll provide it. As for the other elements of the legend, that's basically how it goes. I merely elaborated it a bit and made up facts not specifically mentioned. _

_Curious facts: a) the myth of the Centaurs is actually believed to be derived from the riding peoples of the Eurasian steppes (Scythians, Sarmatians, Huns or what-have-you) because they were such skilled riders that they seemed to be one with their horses. b) the legend of a tribe of warrior women is believed to originate from the Sarmatians (so actually it's the other way around) because they were pretty much the only people where the women fought as well, and of course they would have been equally as good at it as the men. _

_For anyone who is interested in learning more of the steppe tribes I recently found this wonderful Podcast called "Dan Carlin's Hardcore History". Episode 12 of that is entitled steppe stories and deals with the topic. I highly recommend it._

_

* * *

_

_**To scoli727** aka the most awesome reviewer I've had up until now: I herewith officially pester you for feedback. Don't scoff, you specifically asked for it. Consider yourself pestered. As for that other thing I referred to in my mail to you (about the teaser (Good reviewers get extra stuff)) - I had to move it to the next chapter. Hope that's alright. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Tadaah, another installment! Pretty quick, no? Just think about how awfully motivated I would be if everyone commented back! _

* * *

6.

Most people had retired to catch some sleep before they would continue their flight from the Saxon hordes. Nimue caught Guinevere's eyes as the other Woad slipped further into the forest. That was her sign to distract the scout, the most vigilant and perceptive of the Sarmatians. He stopped dead in his tracks when she called out to him, careful so as not to draw any unwanted attention.

"How's the water?" she grinned, trying hard not to reveal how uneasy she felt under his scrutinizing gaze.

"Frozen solid." Came the curt answer.

"I figured as much. I mean is it stable enough to carry the people?"

"Barely." Tristan stated and turned away. This was bad. She couldn't risk him seeing Guin leading his commander into the woods. She could under no circumstances risk him seeing Merlin. This posed her with an immeasurable obstacle: How to lure someone who can't stand you? Nimue racked her brain for an idea that had to be intriguing enough for Tristan to focus on her again and at the same time quiet enough so that no one else would notice. Subtle yet drastic. Her mind was a blank void.

"I hear you almost snuffed out our Lancelot." Came the low voice of the scout, a trace of bemusement in it.

"The blows we exchanged were equal in all aspects." She snapped defiantly, irritated at the seeming lack of consideration the scout showed for his brother-in-arms. She watched the edge of the forest in the corner of her eye. Still Nimue could make out the shadowy silhouettes of Woad and half-Roman in the dark, and if she could see them that meant the scout most certainly could as well. She needed to win just a few moments more.

"It wasn't personal." The Woad whispered solemnly, barely louder than the rustling of the leaves in the wind. "It was never personal."

Tristan regarded the strange woman thoroughly. Even he could not tell what was in her mind. He could not read her as easily as he could read most people and it irritated him greatly.

"It seems silly that those with a common enemy should battle each other instead of banding together." She concluded another elusive train of thought. "I'm sorry to have kept you. You must be tired. Good night." And off she went into the dark.

* * *

She should have known that pig-faced Roman could not be trusted. She should have known better than to stay alone save for the boy, Lucan, while his sister – ever the devoted healer – had gone to look after her fellow villagers. Iosante definitely should have known that Marius would come up with a scheme like this. Awakened by the Saxon drums the Sarmatian had still been a bit drowsy – it had been a short night – and it took her brain a while to register that the man hauling her to her feet was one of the Roman soldiers and by the knife he pressed into her neck he did not intend to help her stand on her wobbly legs. Marius cackled evilly as he took a firm hold of Lucan. She should have at least guessed it when she saw the Roman filth converse very confidentially with his men the previous day.

By the gods! Was there no one around? And just what exactly was the Roman scum planning? Was he all for quiet retribution or did he want to make an example of them? From the corner of her eye Iosante saw the raven haired Woad being manhandled by another soldier. She had been bound and gagged and appeared to have no absolute control over her senses or else she would certainly have taken these flimsy Romans out in a flash. Damnit, she could not deal with this on her own in her present state! Iosante concluded that she needed to draw attention. Enraged she started yelling insults at her captors – in Sarmatian, but they got the general drift.

"You cowardly scum! Does it make you feel like a real man when you can molest children and have brainless brutes jumping at your word? Your wife and even your crazy monks had more guts than you pitiful wretch! You greedy, corrupted bigot! You awful, dirty, honourless..."

* * *

Slowly but surely she regained her senses again. Why did they always have to hit her over the head? Sharp, angered shouts resounded painfully in her battered brain. Nimue recognized the voice as belonging to the Sarmatian woman, Guinevere's dungeon friend. She was kicking up quite a ruckus as Nimue was roughly grabbed by her hair and hauled to her knees by one of the Roman's incompetent guards. Follow orders, employ brute force and take their delight in it was all they were capable of. She felt like joining in the furious yelling, which she deduced probably consisted mainly of insults and curses peppered with a few grisly death threats, when she realized the stale taste of dirty, tattered cloth in her mouth. Also she couldn't move her arms. These bastards had bound and gagged her. How dare they!

* * *

Just one moment – just for one little moment Guinevere had gone to organize something to eat and upon her return Nimue was gone. Hastily she grabbed her bow and arrows, filled with a feeling of dark foreboding. Suddenly she heard a desperate scream to her right.

"LUCAN!!!" it was Maeve. Guinevere took off running. When she arrived people were starting to gather around the scene, so that at first the Woad could not make out what was actually going on.

"That's right, I have the boy and two of these pagan whores!" jeered the nasal voice of Marius.

"What did you just call her?" Woad and Sarmatians alike ground out. Lancelot's hands went to his swords immediately, a reaction mirrored by the other knights, but what could they do as long as these filthy pigs had their knives at their captive's throats? Suddenly the other Woad appeared next to him, bow aimed and with that same dangerous glint of wrath in her eyes that her fellow Woad, his sister and his comrades shared.

Guinevere trained her bow, but hesitated to release the arrow. She only had one shot, the time it would take her to prepare the next shot long enough for the Romans to slit their prisoners throats. Whom was she to help? An innocent child? Her oldest or her new friend? The one she had grown up with or the one whose spirit had kept her sane in the dungeon? Nimue knelt on the snowy ground, a thin trickle of fresh blood once again running down the side of her face and a dirty rag in her mouth. One Roman poked his sword into her back. Nim's eyes were ablaze. Once she was freed there was no hope for these Romans – that much was certain. Though at the moment one thrust was sufficient and she would be impaled. Iosante was held tightly by the tallest of the Roman guards, her feet being lifted off the ground and a dagger pressed to her neck, already drawing blood. Marius himself had caught the boy. Trust that presumptuous pig to be unable to deal with anyone above the age of ten. The man was a father himself, damnit!

* * *

Iosante had one last trump, its effect being enhanced by the fact that the Roman behind her had no idea of it. Now that they were the centre of attention she could go through with her own spontaneously devised plan of action. Inconspicuously her hand moved to her waist and her fingers closed around the object hidden underneath her clothes. Silently she thanked her brother for his foresight in giving it to her. She tried to catch Lancelot's eye to give him a sign, but to no avail. Her brother's dark orbs were currently employed shooting daggers at Marius. It didn't matter too much though. There were enough seasoned fighters around now, all alert and weapons in hand, to carry on. She would have to be fast, faster than the smelly Roman behind her at least. She held her breath for a heartbeat before whipping out a dagger and driving it right into the soldier's brain through his right eye. He yelped at the impact, released his grip and staggered backwards before falling to the ground. Guinevere reacted quickly and put her arrow right through Marius' heart, if he even had one that is, the force of the blow making him stumble backwards and fall. Lucan took the chance and ran into his sister's arms. Nimue used the diversion created by the sudden outbreak of violence to let herself drop to the ground, roll aside and kick the sword out of the soldier's hand. Out of the blue that soldier as well found himself impaled by an arrow, from behind in this case, his form dropping to the ground revealing a rather smug looking Tristan approaching fast on horseback. Faced with what had just taken place as well as several weapons aimed at them and their wielders having no qualms whatsoever to put them to use the remaining Roman soldiers thought it best to surrender and threw their swords away. Lancelot rushed to Iosante and picked her up for she had fallen and was unable to get back to her feet on her own.

The scout didn't seem greatly surprised or even disturbed at the scene before him. Instead he proceeded to throw a Saxon crossbow on the ground at Arthur's feet.

"How many did ya kill?" Bors asked with his booming voice.

"Four." Tristan answered, then, looking back at the slain Romans corrected himself. "Five."

"Not a bad start to the day."

As soon as Guin had freed her arms Nimue clambered to her feet and strode over to where Arthur and his scout stood, ripping the grimy cloth from her mouth in the process.

"Crossbow." She assessed after inspecting the weapon. "Armour-piercing."

Tristan nodded. "They're close. We have no time."

"You ride ahead." Arthur ordered. "Everybody get moving!"

* * *

The people got ready and moving in record time. Soon the caravan was back on the road, trying to outrun the Saxon army. Iosante had insisted on riding on horseback behind her brother, claiming that it would be `just like when we were little and Ghost would carry us over the vast, rolling plains.´ She needed to hold on to him for now; of course he could not refuse her. Nimue and Guinevere chose to employ the same method, the two lithe women riding on Nimue's sturdy little mare. Maeve would not let go of her brother until Dagonet had them both sit in Lady Fulcinia's carriage. The Roman lady was visibly shaken, but gladly took the two former victims of her husband's cruelty under her wings, as if she aimed to make up for his misconduct. Alecto conversed quietly with Arthur as the lad leant out of the window.

"My lady," Maeve began timidly, but was interrupted by Fulcinia.

"There is no need to offer your condolences if they are not meant – and coming from you, how could they be?" There was no accusation on the new widow's words. She was just as tender and gentle as always. The younger woman let her shoulders slump and nodded. She felt that this lady she admired so much for her silent rebellion and undeterrable compassion needed to get a few things off her chest.

"My husband had lost his way quite a while ago already, but he wasn't always like that. Well, rudimentary perhaps. I remember when we first met. He was very handsome back then and carried himself with such easy charm, with such understated confidence and amiability. It was the subtle arrogance of a privileged birth paired with ambition. He was very ambitious even back then. He married me mainly for the prestige and for the handsome dowry, but he treated me well back then. I had no reason to complain really. He never had mistresses or affairs like so many other men in his position do. He was more immersed in building a reputation for himself, making connections, that sort of thing. I have two older daughters, Julia and Portia, who didn't become interesting to him until he realised that marrying them off well could aid him in securing his alliances. They're both in Rome still, now having their own households to tend to." Here she paused, her gaze lingering as if she could picture the two lovely little girls her daughters had been. "Then came the real success. He helped Germanius and hoisted him into the rank of a bishop, receiving these lands in Briton as a result. You know how the rest of the story goes, dear." Fulcinia ended tiredly. Maeve grabbed her hands and spoke up passionately. "No, my lady, do not blame yourself for the course fate sets for us! If it hadn't been for you I would still be so ignorant. I would have had to make do with the limited knowledge my mother left me of the healing arts. You taught me to read and allowed me into the minds of Galenos and Hippocrates. I could name all the people in our village who would be dead now if not for the wisdom from your books. I am so deeply indebted to you, my lady, that I cannot possibly ever repay you! Do not blame yourself for his sins, I beseech you!"

* * *

_Okay, contentwise: _

_- Hippocrates was a greek doctor nowadays generally thought of as being the father of medicine, Galenos (I didn't find the exact version of his name in English, but it should be something like that) was later and Roman, but is also considered one of the top notches of ancient medicine_

_Let's say Fulcinia was probably an only child and inherited these books, then came to their new estate in Briton and recognized Maeve's potential and resumed to (secretly) teach her to read Latin and understand the contents of these books, therefore enhancing the red head's medical knowledge_

_Apart from that you got to see a little action in this chapter. Assuming you are familiar with the general movie storyline I don't think I'm giving too much away in saying that there will be more action in the following chapter, which will be there faster with every constructive review I receive (*hint, hint*)._

_I am now going to pester those readers I know (well, at least by their member nickname) personally. _

_**Scoli727** - keep it coming, you asked for it!_

_**xxBlueButterflyHottixx** - I appreciate the favouriting (it is a proper word as long as I believe in it), now tell me why!_

_**DancinThroughLife**_

_**Fiihox**_

_**Heavy Metal Angel**_

_**microcheese** - I did update. Now I update again. It's your turn now._

_**maskedpainter** - here is more. Did I keep you waiting? Honestly I never updated a story this fast. _

_May these people now feel officially and personally pestered. As for all anonymous readers: Be heard! Make your vote count!_

_Always remember: **Good reviewers get extra stuff!**_


	7. Chapter 7

_Firstly, shame one you. You were officially pestered and yet only maskedpainter managed to reply back. There's definitely room for improvement. In fact I have been sad and depressed the entire weekend and felt very disregarded. I hope you feel guilty now, because a state of sadness and depression is very detrimental to inspiration. That being ranted, enjoy:_

* * *

7.

"You know, I'm officially eligible for marriage now." Iosante mused into her brother's back. At this point it was quite fortunate that she could not see the horrified expression and slightly green tint his face was taking on. She was of the right age, for sure, but according to Sarmatian custom no girl may wed till she had killed a man in battle. She was taunting him, even more so as she took to very thoroughly surveying his brothers-in-arms, murmuring things like `That one is rather sweet´, `He may be Alani but he sure is handsome´ or `Definitely very suitable husband material´ which only served to unnerve him further. He had no mind to notice the mischievous glint in her eyes at this point. His mind just went back and forth between the wish she had implied and the fact that no man on earth, not even one of his trusted comrades, could ever be worthy of _her_; _his _sister.

"That hardly qualifies as battle I think." He choked out, slight panic evident in his voice. She chuckled lightly behind him and leant her forehead against the space between his shoulder blades.

"Don't begrudge me a way of life that is as natural as it is prudent, Lancelot." She said, mock sternness lacing her voice, and threw her sand coloured mane back over her shoulder indignantly. When he huffed she poked his flank and grinned. "Of course, no one here is more gorgeous than you, sweetie. ...You look just like father when he was your age, but with Mama's eyes."

"Whereas you all inherited father's eyes." He stated wistfully, once again caught up in childhood memories for the moment.

"Well, let's evade these Saxon hordes first. Then there will be enough time to concern ourselves with such important matters." She offered appeasingly. He didn't dare to tell her that outrunning the Saxons was most likely an impossible feat. They would have to fight sooner or later, probably even that same day.

* * *

Arthur rode up next to the two Woad women, eyeing them sympathetically though with a hint of wariness.

"How are your various injuries?" he asked politely.

"The next person to hit me over the head is going to lose theirs." Nimue bit out between clenched teeth.

"Fine." Guinevere said a bit too hastily. Upon realising this she bit her bottom lip and stared right ahead stubbornly, acting as if there suddenly could be no more intriguing study object than the back of her friend's head. So much for the charm offense, Nimue thought and decided she would take matters into her own hands then. She would even try to stay civil and not take things just that one step too far, like she had a definite penchant for doing.

"The drums are close. We will probably have to fight today." She assessed gloomily.

"Either that or we manage to outrun them and reach Hadrian's Wall." Arthur stated, not really believing it though.

"Impossible with such a mass of people trailing along. They're already going as fast as they can." Nimue said. "Even at this speed we won't arrive until tomorrow, and the main obstacle is still ahead of us."

"You mean the lake?" the commander asked warily.

"Yes, I mean the lake. Loch Caradoc it's called. So your scout told you?"

"He did and he also mentioned that it was you who gave him the hint." Arthur replied, trying not to let any judgement transpire. He wanted to see her reaction for he was still not done evaluating this woman.

"We're all in the same boat now. It was the least I could do."

"Aye, I suppose." He offered somewhat helplessly. "So I understand you know this area well?"

"Grew up here." She quipped curtly, eyes trained on the surroundings alertly, as always.

"How much longer till we reach it?"

"Loch Caradoc? At this speed maybe three hours. It will be nearing nightfall by then."

"Alright, thank you." Arthur said and after one last unreadable look at the other Woad, who appeared to have lost the gift of speech temporarily, took off. Guinevere leaned out of the saddle and sideways a bit, her eyes following the man's retreating form intently.

"Guin, do my eyes betray me or are you watching him very intently right now?" Nimue remarked with a hint of sarcasm. Her friend gave her a meaningful glance and leaned forward further, applying uncomfortable pressure to Nimue's back.

"Oh dear gods," the raven haired woman hissed at the sudden pain, "Tell me you're not actually falling for Arthur Castus!"

"I am not falling for him." Guinevere said rather unenthusiastically.

"Liar!" Nimue declared triumphantly.

* * *

It wouldn't stop snowing and in the middle of this blank mountain range there wasn't much else than ice and solid rock surface. Due to the lack of concealing foliage and undergrowth at this point the Woad spies and scouts were unable to follow them around as they had done before. Merlin, Bryn and the others would have to take another route around the mountains and meet up with them then, not obviously of course. They were on their own now, some thirty villagers, the remaining Roman guards and the family, seven knights and three warrior women (all injured in some way but determined not to let that get in the way of anything). The trail had been narrow up until now, but suddenly fanned out into a wide valley-like space. Now they would see whether the ice really was thick enough.

"Tell the people to get out of the carriages and spread out." Arthur commanded. The knights dismounted their horses and soon everyone was out on the ice. At the outer edges it was thickest and thus not much of a concern, but the more they proceeded towards the middle of the lake the louder the unsettling sounds from the ice beneath them grew, the shape of the landscape only serving to create a resounding echo of the deep cracking. The horses were positively spooked and as actual rips appeared they shied away. Arthur motioned for everyone to stop. The sudden silence was deafeningly tense, but lasted only for a few heartbeats before the distinct sound of suddenly very near Saxon war drums could be picked up again.

"Knights?" he inquired with solemn determination upon turning around.

"Well, I'm tired of running," Bors began, "And these Saxons are so close behind; my arse is hurtin'."

"I never liked looking over my shoulder anyway." Tristan quipped with the ghost of a smile.

"It will be a pleasure to put an end to this racket." Gawain ground out roughly and Galahad threw in: "And we finally get a look at the bastards."

"Here. Now." Dagonet condensed what they were all thinking at this point. Arthur looked at Lancelot last, who in turn looked at his sister as if for advice. "Let's give 'em hell." She quietly insisted. Not paying attention to the peculiar wording he turned to his commander again and nodded mutely.

"Jols!" Arthur commanded, yearlong routine sufficient for the man to know what had to be done.

"Ganis, I need you to lead the people. The main Saxon army is inland, so if you track the coastline till you reach the wall you'll be safe."

"I'd rather stay and fight." The scrawny villager protested. "You're only seven against hundreds!"

"Nine." Guinevere corrected and took her bow and quiver from the saddle of Nimue's horse. The other Woad did the same. Ganis gave a look that clearly spelled out that nine and seven was not exactly a crucial difference in regard to the enemy's numbers. Meanwhile the people moved ahead faster, spurred on by the impending battle. Maeve and Lucan waved shyly to Dagonet.

"Make it ten." Iosante said and brought Ghost up next to the defence line the knights and Woads were forming. Calmly she strapped a quiver to her back and tested the string on a bow she had somehow procured.

"What exactly do you think you're doing, little one?" Lancelot inquired harshly. She was visibly unimpressed as she took out a first arrow and prepared it on the bow. "Fight or what does it look like, my dear brother?"

"Don't be silly, you can barely stand. How would you fight?"

"Ghost is here. I'll be fine." She retorted and pursed her lips very tightly until they were but a thin white line. This was an exceptionally bad sign as to indicate her mood. Like their mother she would only do this when she was really, really extremely angered and her brother denying her to live according to her nature was definitely one thing that would make her this enraged, regardless of his motivation. The siblings' eyes were ablaze now as they attempted to stare each other down, the shared sentiment of complete ire emphasizing the otherwise subtle family resemblance. This was serious. They were on the verge of a very big fight of their own and it was doubtful the approaching Saxons would have any sympathy for that.

"If she's a bad shot it wouldn't be of any use." Gawain stated matter-of-factly. Lancelot's had snapped around rapidly to face his comrade. "What!?"

"I'm just saying that if she were a bad shot it ..."

"_She_ is a Sarmatian and _my_ sister! Naturally she is a bloody brilliant shot! What are you thinking???" he yelled, unloading his entire wrath on the at this point pitiable blond knight. Had Lancelot not been so blinded by the force of his own temper he would certainly have noticed the triumphant looks both blondes exchanged behind his back.

"You bet I am." Iosante declared confidently.

"Then where's the problem?"

"She is injured. She has a broken leg. She. Cannot. Walk!" Lancelot bit out malevolently. Didn't anyone see he just wanted his only remaining relative in safety?

"Ghost will take good care of her I'm sure." Gawain tried to appease the dark haired knight. "Besides we can use any additional bow."

"But..."

"Lancelot, you display a worrisome disregard for your horse." Dagonet eventually decided to step into the ensuing argument, having served as interpreter for the three puzzled Britons up until now. Lancelot deadpanned, realising how he had just been ruthlessly yet skilfully been outmanoeuvred. To disregard a horse ... for all they knew it might be a reborn relative. Didn't great warriors come back as great horses? The animals were the very foundation of the life of any Sarmatian. No self-respecting Sarmatian would ever be caught without a horse if it was avoidable, and not to honour the animals was nothing short of sacrilege.

"There are many lonely men out there!" he started one last, admittedly desperate attempt.

"Don't worry." Iosante snorted dismissively. "Aye, we won't let them rape you, handsome." Nimue quipped next to him, a wide grin on her face and bloodlust glowing in her silver eyes.

"You have got to be the most stubborn person walking the face of the earth!" he ground out to his sister and turned around to the way which they had come.

"Well, I won't die an old spinster, either which way." She retorted. "This qualifies as battle."

* * *

The first Saxons were already piling onto the ice.

"Look how vile they ...ahm, look." Nimue pointed out to Guinevere.

"So what do you reckon how many there are?" the other woman asked no one in particular.

"About two hundred." Clipped Tristan.

"So that means some 20 for each of us." Galahad did the math.

"Manageable." Nimue evaluated.

"Only just."

"If only we could make the ice break without getting ourselves harmed. With that heavy armour they'd sink like stones." She mused. "We wouldn't even waste a lot of arrows that way."

"I don't see a way for that. We'll have to hold them at bay without." Arthur said calmly.

"Maybe pray for divine intervention?" Lancelot scoffed, still not over the way he had been tricked and now taking it out on his best friend, or anyone who would give him enough chance. Meanwhile the Saxons had marched fully onto the frozen lake and taken up formation. One of their archers aimed an arrow at them and let it loose. It fell to the ground not even halfway between the two fronts and skidded towards them some yards.

"I believe they're waiting for an invitation. Bors..." Arthur ordered.

"May I?" Iosante cut in, arrow trained directly at the Saxon archer's head.

"We're far out of range!" Guinevere argued, worry evident in her voice.

"No, it's only us who are out of their range." Tristan said.

"Come on, you fought us for so long and never noticed?" Bors boomed incredulously.

"Please," Arthur beckoned for general attention again, "Well then, Iosante, Bors, Tristan; if you would be so kind?"

The addressed grinned and stretched their bowstrings to maximum, the scout even taking three arrows at once. As if completely in tune they simultaneously inhaled, aimed, released and exhaled. Four Saxons dropped to the icy ground upon impact, those surrounding them jumping away in fright. Arthur turned to face the two awed Woads with a slight hint of triumph.

"Nice shot." Nimue admitted.

"Nah, I missed." Iosante frowned. "Was aiming for the right eye and hit the left."

* * *

_Tadah, this really turned out to be a lot longer than I originally planned, so now you're stuck with a somewhat-cliffhanger. Sorry. In this chapter, as you might have noticed, I enjoyed being rather mean to Lancelot. Rest assured though, for up until now no knights have been seriously harmed in the making of this story, which isn't to say that will not happen though._

_Scoli727, maskedpainter, microcheese, __xxBlueButterflyHottixx, __DancinThroughLife, __Fiihox, __Heavy Metal Angel and any anonymous reviewers: I shall now pester you again. _

**_pester,pester,pester,pester,pasta(O.o),pester,pester,pester,pester,pester,pester,pester,pester,pester,pastor(it's getting late, evidently),pester,pester,pester,pester._**

_Consider yourselves thoroughly pestered. (Does bad Brad Pitt impersonation) "You all owe me at least one review. And I want my reviews!"_

PS.: Loch _obviously is the Scottish word for lake. Since my Gaelic is kinda non-existant I just assumed that's what the natives would have called a lake even back then._ Caradoc _is listed as one of the Knights of the Round Table in Malory's `Le Morte d'Arthur´ I believe, which I haven't yet read more of than the first three lines. I actually tried finding out about lakes in the area where this would take place, but couldn't find any so just grant be a bit of artistic license here. The name sounded Celtic/Gaelic enough for me. _


	8. Chapter 8

_Alright, there was a bit of lighthearted fun in the last chapter, therefore this installment is full of drama. (*cries* )_

_It would be very cynical at this point to ask you to enjoy. So just read. (*goes to cry some more*)_

* * *

8.

The Saxons got moving. In a broad front they marched towards the humbly numbered group of defenders. The ice shuddered under their heavy, stomping feet. Cracks that had appeared beforehand now widened and deepened, emitting thunderous roars that echoed throughout the valley of the lake. All ten fighters had their bows ready now, only waiting for their commander to give them the final order.

"Aim for the wings of the ranks. Make them cluster."

The unfortunate men on the flanks fell like domino pieces. Scared and put off that a group of people just a fraction of their own size could decimate their number so easily made the remaining Saxons retreat towards the middle of their formation, therefore putting greater weight on less space. The noise grew more deafening, almost as if a large beast residing in the deep waters protested against the turmoil above. Already a few Saxons stumbled. Their leader noticed the threat and ordered his soldiers to hold the ranks, but that put them in the undesirable position of either being impaled by arrows or disregarding the order and making the ice crack beneath their feet. So far Nimue's original idea as applied by Arthur showed promise, though no pivotal effect.

"It's not going to break. Back! Fall back!" Arthur commanded and drew his sword. The men retreated backwards, further towards the shore and prepared for close combat. Guinevere, Nimue and Iosante proceeded to fire their arrows with deadly accuracy. Suddenly Dagonet laid down his sword again and picked up his mighty battle axe instead. With a mighty roar he ran forward, headed directly for the Saxon line.

"Dag!!!" Bors yelled. Had the gentle giant gone insane?

"Cover him!" Arthur shouted and the men rushed to their previously abandoned bows again, once again opening fire. Dagonet started smashing the ice, the sharp clang of metal resounding even louder than their foes' aggravated yells.

The Saxon leader seized the opportunity and ordered his archers to the front. Those who were not hit by the Sarmatian and Briton arrows released their arrows and crossbow bolts on Dagonet, who was now viciously hacking at the thick ice in grim determination, all in the hope to at least cut off the way for their pursuers. Just when he made the first real breakthrough the first Saxon bolt hit his side, making the gigantic man stumble. Still he would neither relinquish his grasp of the weapon nor cease to assault the now rapidly breaking ice. Arthur started running immediately upon seeing his comrade and healer take the first hit. Two more followed while he was still on the way, trying to dodge the bolts that flew past him. The others continued to shoot their arrows with almost desperate anger, trying to cover both men out in the suddenly inconceivably dangerous middle of the lake. Nimue cursed inwardly as she assessed that the ice was going to give way under their feet, too, so without really thinking it through she abandoned her position and took off running towards them. Already a considerable amount of Saxons lost their footing as large shards of ice broke loose and swayed under the weight upon them. Dagonet, having accomplished what he had set out to, dropped first to his knees, then face first into the freezing water. Arthur reached the spot only a heartbeat later and dunked his arm into the black, cold depths, but to no avail. Dagonet had sunken too deep already to be grabbed from the edge. While Arthur was still desperately fishing for his fallen knight Nimue had almost reached them. She sped up on the last yards and without missing a beat dove head first into the numbing cold.

At first she could neither see nor sense anything, not even the difference between up and down, so large was the shock of impact. Her arms searched feverishly for anything substantial, finally grabbing hold of a studded leather jerkin after what felt like eternities. Her fingers clawed into the soaked fabric and pushed the body of Dagonet towards the light. At this point it wasn't cold anymore. In fact she could not have said which part of her burned the most: her oxygen-deprived lungs, her rapidly moving legs or her skin. She struggled but the surface didn't seem to come any nearer until out of nowhere an arm appeared and hoisted Dagonet's lifeless form out of the water. She pulled herself up on the slippery surface with some difficulty and dropped to the ground, the screams of "Dagonet, stay with me!" ringing in her ears.

Luckily by now the Saxons were largely occupied with not drowning, a task at which they failed rather miserably, yet another problem arose. Now the cracks in the ice were coming towards them. "Pull back!" Lancelot yelled. What did his sister do? She spurred Ghost forward into a gallop, all the while releasing arrow after arrow without one missing his target. She reached the small group just in time for Arthur to haul an apparently unconscious Dagonet onto the animal behind her. He then picked up the dizzy Woad and ran after the majestic animal as it made its way back. They made a fast retreat after that, Iosante not even slowing as she passed them. Maybe if she reached the caravan in time, surely Maeve could help. The red head was such a talented healer. The knights jumped onto their horses and galloped off. Lancelot took Dagonet's black steed while Guinevere mounted her friend's horse. Arthur placed the shivering Woad, who appeared to have lost consciousness now, on the saddle before him.

* * *

Maeve knew for sure something had gone terribly wrong when the dark silhouette of a lone rider appeared on the trail behind the caravan. Iosante was approaching fast and had reached the carriage within a matter of moments. Only now did the red headed woman notice the limp form of the Sarmatian healer, arrows and bolts sticking out of his body. The Briton was horrified, but on the other hand her instincts kicked in instantly and she leaned out to check for a pulse, which luckily she found even if it was weak.

Upon realising what was going on behind him Jols halted the carriage and assisted the women in hoisting the huge knight off the horse and onto the wagon. Dagonet emitted an anguished moan and his eyelids fluttered as Maeve bound her hair back with a piece of cloth and began examining his wounds.

"More light!" she demanded harshly upon which the cloths previously closing off the vehicle's inside were quickly taken off. It didn't look well. The knight was ghastly pale and three arrows were firmly embedded into his side. The bleeding was not profuse yet, though it would certainly increase if the arrows were removed. The calmness and security of her hands betrayed the inner turmoil she felt when removing the heavy, soaking wet leather jerkin and simple tunic from the wounds.

"Clean water and cloths." She commanded, not even looking up to see who would supply the things she needed. Lightly she tugged at one of the arrows to test whether they were equipped with hooks that might do more damage when pulled out.

Meanwhile the remainder of the knights and Woads returned. Out of breath and looking drawn they crowded around the wagon, anxious to find out about Dagonet's state.

"How is he?" Arthur ground out hoarsely. Maeve, without even tearing her gaze away from what she was doing, answered hastily, in a clipped tone that showed her deep concentration.

"I need water, boiled, and my bag." She commended in a tone that left no room for argument. Undecided, no one dared to move. "Fire. Water. Bag. Now!" she stated lowly and insistently. Her fiery eyes swept along the row of warriors, some of whom involuntarily winced at the intensity in the otherwise timid Briton's gaze. Soundlessly Tristan crept away and ignited a fire on the ground by the wagon. Fulcinia provided him with a cauldron and water as she came back with the cloths the healer had demanded. Jols placed her bag next to her, which she hardly seemed to notice, so immersed was she in the task of saving Dagonet's life. The huge knight emitted another pained groan, but much quieter this time, which in itself was already a reason for concern. His breathing was growing increasingly shallow as did his pulse.

"How is he?" Arthur inquired again, this time with more insistence and authority in his tone. Maeve's head snapped up. Her eyes were completely ablaze now, giving them an almost otherworldly quality. Her cheeks were flushed and her red hair flowed loosely from under the rag. She looked like an ancient Briton war goddess then, even more so as she venomously bit out: "You all standing here looking over my shoulder isn't any help. Go away. Go!" she sent them off, then her gaze fell upon the frosted form of Nimue. "Go and help her. Warm her up again or you'll have at least one casualty."

Then, without further ado, Maeve turned to her patient again. The cold he had obviously been in might very well have aided in his survival up until now, for it had slowed the blood flow. Still this was no more than a delay. The arrows were hooked; there was no doubt about it. She could not tell which internal organs had been injured and how badly. In the worst case the mighty knight would inwardly bleed to death. Forgetting the world around her save for the equipment she required and the hands that gave them to her upon request. She would put all her knowledge and all her heart into saving that man, who had been so kind to her and Lucan, where she had been unable to save her father. Arthur and Gawain had to forcefully lead Bors away from his best friend's side.

* * *

With a soft moan Nimue returned to life, or at least conscious perception of it. She had been wrapped up in two or three thick woollen cloaks, still she shivered violently. Her black tresses were partially white due to the water that had frozen in them. Her lips were a dark blue as if they had been coloured with a generous amount of woad paint.

"You stupid, stupid, stupid moronic fool." Guinevere scolded softly as soon as she noticed her friend regaining consciousness. "What did you jump into the bloody lake for?"

"He was drowning." Nimue murmured between chattering teeth. "And I don't know if Arthur can swim."

Guinevere absentmindedly tugged at one of the cloaks, provided by courtesy of Arthur and his knights, in order to pull it tighter around Nimue's shuddering form. "Still it was stupid. Are you intent on killing yourself as well or do you get a kick out of these near death experiences?"

"It was my idea," she murmured, barely above a whisper while guilt very clearly laced through her voice. "About making the ice break, that was my idea. I am responsible." The Woad went on, reproachful towards herself and clearly shaken.

"How is he?" she ultimately questioned, "Did he make it?"

"We don't know yet." Came the solemn voice of one of the knights, who turned out to be Lancelot. He had been sitting on her other side, but because she was turned towards Guinevere and the Sarmatians and their commander all faced the opposite direction to the carriage she had not noticed him before. Filled by sudden jolts of energy, which may well have their source in her mentally tense state rather than actual physical strength at this point, Nimue struggled to sit up. This was a bad idea since during all the action her wounds had reopened again and somewhat dried to the damp fabric of her tunic. Now with the sudden movement the fabric was forcefully ripped off the tender skin, causing the Woad to emit a strangled gasp as the pain shot through her entire body with numbing sharpness. Guinevere shot her a worried glance, which she waved off immediately.

"I'm fine." She claimed defiantly and shoved the other woman's hands away, then carefully shuffled around until she as well had a good view of the carriage. It seemed like a century at least that they all just sat and stared at the one solid wall of the vehicle that blocked their way of its insides. It was frightening how it still shocked them when of theirs was wounded, even after so many years and having lost as many brothers as they had. Nobody dared to speak a word, though Arthur's lips moved silently in prayer. The villagers had actually journeyed on, as ordered by the half-Roman commander. They would need much longer to reach the fort as it was and they had children and some sick people with them. It was best they arrived at the wall as soon as possible. Arthur had also sent Alecto off with the caravan, but had to capitulate before the lad's mother. The Roman lady insisted on assisting the village healer. Lucan was back in Iosante's arms, looking on anxiously. It was impossible to tell who held onto whom.

Eventually the thin form of the red haired healer appeared next to the carriage and weakly trod towards them. She looked pale and utterly exhausted. Lest she had exerted herself too much. She was still weak and underfed herself after all. Smears of blood ran over her forehead and cheeks, stained her blouse and skirt where she had wiped off her slippery hands. Her arms were almost completely coated in blood up until the elbows. The vicious fire in her eyes had vanished and been replaced with an unreadable depth. The bloodied hands hung loosely by her sides as she came to stand before the group. Tiredly she glanced at every single person. The anxiety was palpable in the crisp winter air as she finally spoke with a small, defeated voice.

"I am sorry."

Bors eyes widened in shock at what the red head had just implied. "No!" he bellowed, pain evident as he jumped to his feet and made to march over to the carriage.

"I did everything I could." Maeve pleaded, "It wasn't enough. I am sorry."

One after the other the horrible truth registered with the other Sarmatians. Covertly Iosante wiped away a few tears that had sneaked their way out and onto her cheeks. Arthur just collapsed back upon himself, cursing the world, the Saxons, the bishop – and most of all himself.

"I am so sorry." Maeve whispered one last time. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees gave way from under her, causing her slender form to topple to the ground. So she had exerted herself after all. The massive effort she had put into saving Dagonet's life had taken its toll on her weakened state and caused her to faint. Lucan cried out in horror and freed himself from Iosante's grasp. He ran over to his sister's limp form and heaved her head into his lap. It was heart-braking, only the knights didn't feel like they had much more power to cope with the ever newly ensuing tragedy around them anymore, at least not for today. Having regained his countenance Arthur stood and quickly gave a few orders. The currently incapacitated, Maeve and Nimue – the latter under feeble protest, were placed on the carriage along with Lucan and Fulcinia, all as if taking the first death watch. Jols took up the reins of the vehicle again and the Sarmatians, the Woad and the half-Briton mounted the horses. Solemnly they continued their way to the fortress at the wall.

* * *

_Why oh why did the screenwriters have to kill him off? Poor Dagonet, I really liked him. _

_Well, on to more pleasurable things. Let us welcome **tinabella** into the round of my lovely subscribers! _

_I sincerely hope that this hasn't scared you off and that you find the chance to tell me what you thought about it. Same goes for the others, you know the drill. Honestly your feedback makes my day. Story-writing isn't a one-way road, you know. I depend on your views to give me new impulses. This time I refrain from pestering, since I am too downcast about Dagonet's fate. Who else will fall? Will anyone else fall? Why doesn't anybody really like poor Tristan up until now? _

_So many unanswered questions. Stay tuned, folks. Bye. _

_(*sobs*)_


	9. Default Chapter Review Reply

This is just a reply to an anonymous reviewer, so feel free to skip this and get on with the story if you didn't reply under the nickname of:

_**KatyPhoenix**__(and everyone else who cares to know):_

_First of all, thank you for reviewing, that's always appreciated I'm glad you enjoy the characters as well._

_As for the languages, are you sure? According to my in no way complete knowledge the `Woads´ as they are being called in the movie are Picts and/or Scots, which are Celtic tribes. English, also in its early form on the other hand derives from Saxon, which is indeed a Germanic language and the language that the other tribe that would settle there, the Angles from what is now Denmark, spoke. The historical facts do actually say that at that time there were already Saxon settlers in the south, around central England, so that's an inaccuracy by the filmmakers to have a Saxon army invade from the north. The Goths at that time were actually living in about the same area that the Sarmatians came from, which is nowadays south-eastern Europe, around the Black Sea. The West Goths then proceeded on to the Iberian Peninsula, so that's Spain. The East Goths went to Turkey and Italy later where they would sack Rome under their leader Alaric. So the Goths never really went to the British Isles, at least not in masses. The Saxons and Angles arrived around the 450s in the south, what we now call England. So north of the wall it's pretty much all Celtic. As far as I know there is even an Irish and a Scottish version of Gaelic. However, if you are sure and can back it up be welcome to share your findings with me. I'm always happy to learn, especially about history._

_As for Dagonet, medicine wasn't that advanced back then. His injuries were really serious, in the movie it was implied that he was dead pretty much instantly. I hope you stay tuned nevertheless. Of course I dearly love all the knights and of course they all deserve a whole lotta love! On the other hand I like drama and thus killing people off even more. Who will live and who will not? Will I ever find redemption from my dear readers for murdering Dagonet? Then again they need a reason to really, really hate the bishop's guts, not that there isn't enough bad blood already. Dagonet's sacrifice is so pivotal to the story, too. The point is Arthur really needs to have a good reason to despise the bishop. In the movie it's a major turning point I think. Before he's just kinda mad that they even have to go on that stupid suicide mission, but when one of his men actually falls he just hates Germanius, I mean really __hates__ him. Did you see how he reacted when they got back? How he just spat out that `Bishop Germanius ,friend of my father.´ was pretty powerful in my opinion. The subtext to that was pretty much something along the lines of `I am going to strangle you with my bare hands after I skinned you with a rusty spoon´. It serves to shake his allegiance to Rome and in the end makes him choose the Briton side. _

_But there will be love for our beloved, adored knights, I promise it! Besides I'd be very happy and glad to keep getting reviews from you as well. It helps me such a great deal to know how the things that somehow worm their way out of the depths of my twisted brain are received. _

_Gosh, now I talked waaay too much. Sorry for that. Let's get on with the story! _


	10. Chapter 9

9.

They arrived at Hadrian's Wall just before nightfall, as the last former inhabitants of Marius Honorius' village passed through the heavy gates and onto the safer southern side. The bishop made his entrance into the main square as soon as he made out Alecto.

"God be praised! Against all the odds Satan could muster! Alecto, my dear boy, let me see you!" he exclaimed excitedly, oblivious to the apparent disgust in the lad's eyes, "You have thrived. Where is your father?"

"Rotting in hell where he belongs." Snarled a clearly upset Galahad. The knights rode into the square, their expressions weary. The bishop was irritated for a moment at the gall a common soldier, not even a Roman citizen and a pagan barbarian at that, dared to employ, yet decided not to dwell on it. These Sarmatians had fulfilled their mission, after all. The Pope's favourite charge was safe and sound, so Germanius was feeling rather benevolent.

"Ah, the great knights!" he went on in a feeble attempt to diffuse the palpable tension. "You are free now! Bring me the papers."

One of his Roman legionaries rushed to the bishop's side, holding the wooden box the men knew so well from their last meeting.

"Your papers for safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire." He declared, grinning like an imbecile. No one moved; the knights just stood by their horses like a wall of unconcealed hatred. The bishop, the revered and powerful Germanius found himself the subject of death glares both Briton and Sarmatian and began to feel duly uncomfortable in his skin. "Take it!" he urged with slight panic. "Arthur!" he begged, barely able to constrain the light shriek from his voice. Arthur walked up to the shorter man until his face was but a heartbeat away from the priest's.

"Bishop Germanius, friend of my father." The commander ground out. His expression was guarded but his blazing green eyes spoke of the contempt and resentment that had replaced any positive feeling he had ever had towards the man.

Gawain stepped forward as soon as Arthur had left the scene. He unceremoniously grabbed the scrolls from the box and proceeded to make the round. Galahad marched off towards the stables with his steed as soon as he had his. Tristan was unreadable as always. Lancelot never once took his glare off the bishop or otherwise he might have noticed how pale his sister had suddenly turned. Iosante forcefully ripped her eyes away and turned towards Gawain, took her brother's discharge paper for him, and gave the blonde knight a warm smile. "At least that." She murmured sadly and squeezed his hand. "Congratulations, you are not a slave anymore." Gawain snorted with equal bitterness and turned to the last knight. Two scrolls had remained in his hands.

"Bors." He addressed the burly man intently. He didn't budge, just stared ahead silently, as if he had trouble bottling up his rage and grief inside. "Bors." Gawain said again, a bit louder this time, and pressed the two remaining scrolls into the other's large bear paw. "For Dagonet."

"This doesn't make him a free man." Bors spat lowly, now finally meeting his comrade's gaze. "He's already a free man. He's dead!" and with that he threw the papers in the mud at Germanius' feet, making the holy man jump back in fright. But he was in for more.

"You forgot ribbon." Came a dulcet female voice with deceitful sweetness, the kind that is supposed to lure the unsuspecting victim in while waiting with a sharp knife up the sleeve. A young woman with sand blonde hair, pale, slender, with ragged clothes approached him, not even caring to dismount her horse.

"Excuse me?" Germanius inquired irritably. She brought the animal to stand right in front of him and leant down until her face was but inches from his. She scoffed now, all sweetness gone and replaced with bitter resentment.

"When you bought me and ship me off to here as present for your good friend, Marius, you forgot to tie nice ribbon around." She sneered, dangerously low, making the hair on his neck stand up. "Is what you do with presents, no?" she mocked. "Don't remember, eh? Don't remember this hot, dusty day on slave market of Rome." She went on, ever leaning closer. There was cold determination in her eyes and something that he could not quite place. Germanius only knew that this was the look of a hunter moving in for the kill. Lancelot and Gawain stepped up to both sides of the horse – even the animal seemed to glare Germanius into the ground now – but made no attempt at calming the crazy woman. It was not likely that they would interject should she procure a sharp object from somewhere and decide to have a go at him. Damnit, where were his legionaries when he needed them?

The two knights stepped closer as if not to miss any important bits. Gawain thoughtfully picked up the discharge papers Bors had thrown away in protest. He would need his in the future. Lancelot knew that his sister loved and hated eternally and that her memory in such things was without failure. If this man had wronged her at some point in the past she would know and she would not rest until she had gotten her vengeance. The bishop couldn't flee. His back was pressed up against the side of the carriage and all other escape routes were covered by three increasingly irate Sarmatians, two of whom were now no longer subject to his orders it should be added.

"Well?" Iosante inquired harshly.

"I-i-i-i-i-i-i-i d-d-d-d-d-d-do r-r-r-remem-b-b-b-b-b-b-ber." Germanius pitifully stuttered between suddenly dried lips.

"Good." Was her satisfied reply. Her eyes had been cold, almost serpent-like, though clearly hostile to this point. Out of the blue Germanius found himself struck with such force that his head jerked to one side and battered against the wood of the carriage behind him in the process. Regaining balance he found the tip of a dagger pointed right at the spot between his eyes. This woman was most definitely insane. Why did nobody help him? Why did these two knights just stand by and watch with satisfaction?

"Where is my sister?" Iosante growled lowly and pressed the tip of the dagger a bit into his flesh.

"Who?" he asked feebly. That was a mistake. With one fluent movement she knocked his head to the other side with an even heavier blow, and this time it was accompanied by the searing pain of a sharp blade slashing his cheek.

"My sister, who you bought along with me, you filthy swine. Where is she?" Iosante now yelled at deafening volume and right into his ears. By God, where had this demon come from to plague him? Her blows and shouts came incessantly now. Germanius cowered lowly, crouching to the ground. Gawain held her thrashing arm in a firm grip, hauling her back up when she threatened to fall to the ground from leaning over too much.

"Enough," he urged softly as he wrought the weapon from her hand. "Enough, Iosante. He's not worth it."

She was yet too enraged to let the tears fall that were building up in the corners of her beautiful eyes. When her gaze met that of the blonde knight it was still murderous and for a moment he imagined that this woman let loose on a battlefield would have been the pride of her tribe along with her brother.

"Come." Gawain beckoned softly and gently helped her to dismount the horse when she lowered her eyes in defeat.

Lancelot knelt before the miserable heap that was one of Rome's most influential figures.

"An interesting question, Your Excellency." The dark haired knight asked, irony drawling from his voice like honey. Germanius stared at him with dread, unsure of what the Sarmatian could possibly be up to.

"You know, her sister is also my sister. Therefore naturally I am very interested in her fate. You understand that, no?" the bishop nodded frantically. "Lovely," Lancelot stated wryly. "Back to the question at hand then: Where is my sister?"

Germanius let out a low wail and fingered at his bloody cheek. The scar would mark him henceforth. Oh these barbarians!

"Well? Would Your Excellency have the goodness to grace me with an answer?" the knight growled dangerously. The horse eyed the Roman maliciously and snorted in agreement with his master.

"Lancelot! What is happening here?" Arthur demanded to know. The Sarmatian woman's angered yells had brought him back and he was not particularly pleased about the situation he now found his first knight in.

"Just sorting something out, my friend." Lancelot stated, putting special emphasis on the last two words. "I believe the bishop wanted to tell me something."

Said person's eyes frantically went back and forth between the two men. Although Arthur was a Christian, a Roman and a friend's son he didn't seem particularly inclined to assist Germanius. Not especially pleased at the way he was being treated, but also not very opposed to it at this point. He seemed to believe that his first knight and best friend had a cause for his behaviour and also deduced that it had probably not been him who had attacked the bishop so violently.

"I'm waiting." Lancelot said sweetly, much in the same way that Iosante had begun her assault.

"Th-the girl you mean works in m-m-my house in R-r-r-r-rome." Germanius stuttered.

"So she lives." Lancelot stated, ignoring Arthur's questioning look. "Your luck, bishop. Honestly I could have made no guarantees for my other sister had that not been the case. I dearly hope that's not just a lie to save your wretched skin."

Germanius shook his head fervently, making a few joints in his neck crack vilely in the process.

* * *

Galahad had put his horse back into the stables with an extra big pile of hay. Then he trod across the town square aimlessly, his feet somehow making their own decisions about which route to take. These past few days had possibly been the most demanding in their entire fifteen years of service. He felt so depleted, all mentally, physically and emotionally, that he wondered whether it could ever be possible to recuperate. Automatically he greeted people he knew, like Bryn, a young man whose father was one of the farmers and who was learning the art of treating wounds from the fort's residential healer. He met Vanora's and Bors' eldest three and showed them the way he had seen their father take. It would be good for the burly knight to be surrounded by those who lived and loved him now. Even if he would never admit it his numerous offspring was the reason he was still alive. By chance Galahad came across the young village healer and her little brother. Maeve still was bathed in Dagonet's blood from head to toe. The two looked utterly forlorn. Nobody had taken care of them. Dagonet had seen to that up until now. The youngest knight felt guilty. The red haired girl had exhausted herself beyond reason for his comrade and now nobody would see to it that she and her brother were even properly fed. He could hear the rumbling stomachs even where he stood. She looked down timidly when he addressed her, claiming that she didn't want to be a burden.

"Nobody would think that way." he assured and attempted to lead her off to Vanora's tavern. Meekly she followed.

The tavern itself was deserted save for some of Vanora's youngest. "Can you get your Mommy here for me?" he asked Seven, who instantly dashed off towards the kitchen in the back. The russet haired tavern owner came emerged shortly thereafter. Her eyes were red from crying, which she quickly tried to hide.

"What can I do for you, dear?" she asked and gave a weak smile to the siblings. Galahad introduced Maeve and Lucan as well as he could and asked for something to eat for the thoroughly emaciated two of them.

"I'm not hungry." Maeve stated glumly. He turned around to face her. She was really the skinniest person he had ever seen. She was as thin as a twig. Otherwise she might have been a pretty girl, but now her bones stuck out, her hair had lost its vibrant shine and her eyes were dull and hollow.

"Be reasonable, you need to eat something." He urged. To no avail. She would not be deterred. It was as if her grief was eating her up right in front of his eyes. This girl wasn't a warrior like the Woad women or Iosante. Her battles were against wounds and diseases, and she had fought the futile fight for Dagonet's life with just as much ferocity as any of them would employ on the battlefield. He saw guilt in her green eyes, and loss. She was blaming herself. And now she was punishing herself for her failure.

"No!" he exclaimed vividly as this revelation hit him. "Please, you need to regain your strength." He urged, almost begged. Galahad had made it his task to carry on Dagonet's legacy by taking care of these two and nothing and no one would stand in his way in ensuring that they got the best possible care.

"I'm not hungry." She persisted and hid her hands under the table.

"Maeve!" Lucan spoke up sternly and said something to her in their native tongue. At this she broke out in tears. Heavy sobs shook her lithe frame as she ruffled her little brother's hair affectionately.

"What did he say?" Galahad asked.

"He said I must eat, because he doesn't want me to die as well." She choked out between sobs.

"And are you going to listen to him, if you won't listen to me?" Galahad went on softly, taking her small hand in his reassuringly. She swallowed hard and nodded.

* * *

_Aaaaah, technology hates me! I accidentally deleted this chapter just a moment ago, so now here it is again. "MY BRAVE KNIGHTS, I HAVE FAILED YOU!!!" *bangs head against wall repeatedly*_


	11. Chapter 10

_Hi there, I hope you all had lovely holidays and a great New Year. I already had a travel desaster (flight delayed six hours!) and a flu (not associated with any animals, just an ordinary one), but apart from that I had a splendid time, so splendid in fact that it was rather hard for me to get into that downcast mind set again which I need for writing the story at this stage. I hope I managed alright though. You'll be the judges of that. The story now has a following of 11 on Alert List and 5 on Favorites List. If everyone of those left just one reply the current number of comments would be a bit more than doubled. Think about it. _

* * *

10.

Incredible what an appetite a single human could develop. It was quite an amazing sight to behold how this fragile Briton girl and her tiny brother greedily shovelled spoonful after spoonful of Vanora's best stew into their mouths. The gods knew they had been deprived of such things long enough. Maeve gave up after the third serving, no matter how heart-wrenchingly Vanora begged. The siblings appealed to her maternal instincts. The russet haired tavern owner had immediately found a space in her big heart for the two forlorn refugees.

Lucan hobbled and writhed in his seat and kept sneaking glances at numbers Four to Ten who were still playing on the tavern floor.

"Why don't you go and ask if you can play with them?" Maeve suggested, sensing the boy's need to just be a child again. "Be careful with your arm." She called softly after him as he dashed off. Needless to say he was warmly welcomed into the merry round instantly. The sound of children's laughter had something very comforting about it, a feeling that maybe the world wasn't going to end just yet.

"They're too young to understand." Galahad commented at the unspoken question that hung in the air between them. "Come tomorrow they'll start to ask where their uncle Dagonet is." The youngest knight barely choked out. Nothing had prepared him for this. Dagonet had been something of a father figure to all of them, even though Arthur was the commander and even though the age gap between all of them was not that large. It was just that the giant healer's calm and reasonable demeanour, his wise council and quiet care had been the glue that ultimately tied them together. Whenever the bickering between any of them threatened to turn into a serious brawl it had been Dagonet who kept them from bashing each other's skulls in. Whenever one of them had overdone it with the drinking again Dagonet had been the one to carry them back to their quarters and brew a horrid-tasting but very effective hangover medicine the next day. Whenever they were injured in battle it had been Dagonet who patched them back up, never leaving a brother's side as long as he was still at some risk.

"I'm sorry." Maeve offered meekly. Her face seemed to be a perfect mirror of his own inner turmoil.

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault." He said.

"His lung was punctured," she stated hesitantly, "By four arrows. It's remarkable he held up that long."

"Then there's nothing you could have done anyway." Galahad concluded with finality, set on reassurance. He meant what he said.

"What's that?" she asked after a prolonged pause and shyly motioned at his discharge paper that he had carelessly stuffed into his belt.

"Rome fulfilling its part of the deal." He said bitterly.

"May I?" Maeve requested and since he saw no harm in it he handed the scroll to her. Carefully she unrolled it and immediately her brows furrowed in deep concentration as she read through the text.

"Did you read it already?" she inquired upon finishing.

"No, why?" Galahad replied. Save for Arthur neither of them could read or write especially well. The main focus had always been on training the sword arm rather than the brain. The lack was not of intelligence but of practice. Actually it was due solely to their commander's influence that they had been taught at all. Normally an education was not considered necessary for the barbarian auxiliary forces.

"It says here that you are granted free movement throughout the Roman Empire," Maeve began. The knight nodded in acknowledgment. That point was known.

"Furthermore it grants you the rights of a Roman citizen." Her voice got more agitated with every word and she looked at him expectantly, as if he was supposed to know what that meant. Why would he want to have any further association with Rome? Galahad shook his head slightly to indicate that he didn't understand what she was getting at.

"Essentially it encompasses a mass of rights, like to vote as well as stand for office, do business, make contracts, hold property, marry a Roman and receive a proper trial in case one gets into trouble with the law. It also extends to your children automatically."

"And what exactly does that mean for my brothers and me?" the young knight inquired wryly. None of the mentioned privileges meant anything to him, save for the clause about free movement, and with Sarmatia overrun by the Huns even that was nullified.

"It means Rome cannot treat you again like they have up until now. It means they cannot do it to your children or any following generation." Maeve said with a certain edge of longing in her voice. "Essentially it means freedom."

* * *

After speaking with his lover, seeing off his children and equipping himself with a shovel, a lantern and a large jug of ale Bors set out to their sad little cemetery and began digging. The fort was situated outside of the mountains, but even though there was virtually no snow down here the ground was frozen. The burly warrior assaulted the earth with the ferocity that only someone raging against fate desperately can muster. Soon he was joined by the scout, then the commander. They worked in silence, only accompanied by the sound of earth being thrown through the air and the light of their lanterns. Lancelot followed, as did Gawain and Galahad, the latter after seeing to it that the siblings got a roof over their heads and a warm bed to rest. By that time they took it in shifts to dig a grave for their fallen comrade. Wordlessly the men worked, united by their grief and illuminated only by the dim shine of six lanterns. The fading sunlight and the exhausting mixture of fleeing and battling in these last few days had etched harsh lines into their distraught faces. Despite the crisp winds sweeping across the land the men were soon sweating enough to take off the heavy leather jerkins. Once finished the newly dug grave was a good six feet deep. The men lined up and regarded their work as if on cue. Solemnly they let the ale pass, each taking a generous sip.

"Where are our dungeon birds?" someone suddenly spoke up. It was Tristan. It was odd to hear the silent scout speak, even after so many years together. When he opened his mouth he almost certainly surprised those around him. Though it must also be taken into consideration that, like the others he had consumed a substantial amount of alcohol by now.

"Who?" drawled a by now rather inebriated Bors.

"The women." Gawain proceeded explain. "Iosante and the red head..."

"Maeve." Galahad interrupted decidedly.

"Who?" Bors drawled again, his brain sinking into ale- as well as grief-induced stupor.

"The healer who... who tried to..."

"Oh...right."

"Yes."

"So, as I was saying," Gawain spoke up again, effectively ending the other two's banter. "Iosante and Maeve are holding the death watch. I have no idea where the Woads are."

* * *

"Hey there, long time no see." Bryn quipped as he poked his head around the corner. That boy was inconceivable. The world could come crashing down around him and he would not relinquish his cheerfulness. _`If you must meet your fate you might as well do it with a smile´ _was his philosophy. The only things that ever put a frown on his features were illnesses or injuries he could not cure or reluctant patients. He was about to be met with one of those calamities in the very near future.

"So I hear you've been for a swim?" he addressed a very annoyed Nimue. She hadn't slept much in the past three days, and it was beginning to take its toll on her along with her injuries and the general exhaustion of their flight to the wall. Needless to say she was rather cranky at this point. Guinevere quickly put her hands on her friend's arms, for reassurance on the one hand and in order to hold her back should her reaction turn out a little bit ...wilder on the other.

"You should let him check over your back again." The Woad princess insisted knowing well that she and Merlin were pretty much the only people Nimue ever listened to anyway. The raven-haired woman huffed, but complied and together they followed the young man to the infirmary. Soon she lay on a cot, back bared and face buried in the fabric; in such a way that anyone might wonder how she managed to breathe. Her long hair flowed freely, forming a thick, impenetrable curtain around her head. From time to time Nimue would either groan softly or hiss sharply. For a moment Guinevere wondered whether her friend had fallen asleep from exhaustion. Quietly the Woad rebel began a conversation with the healer Bryn. In the general commotion the return of the knights, not even speaking of the arrival of dozens of refugees, he had managed to steal away and contact Merlin and a few of their freshly returned scouts on the northern side of the wall.

"We should have at least two days of rest according to the reports from our spies, maybe three. The Saxon forces are gathering and re-grouping at the Roman's former estate." The healer just relayed the latest information to his leader's daughter as Arthur and Tristan like the ever watchful shadow entered. Bryn had not been facing the door and thus was merely mildly confused by the slightly disturbed expression on Guinevere's features. She stared at the two men in the doorframe nervously, then to Bryn and back to commander and scout again. Bryn turned around only to come face to face with the men, both of whose faces were unreadable.

"Oh ... I just revealed myself, didn't I?" the younger man smiled sheepishly. No reply. Bryn shifted uncomfortably.

"He never spied on you." rasped a dulled voice from underneath the tangles of her black mane. So Nimue wasn't asleep after all. Arthur raised an eyebrow but decided not to press the matter any further. Instead he took a seat and nodded for the young healer to continue with his treatment. Tristan, as expected, made no sound whatsoever even as he seemed to melt into the wall behind his commander. There he loomed over the scene, peering down over Arthur's broad shoulder.

"How are you, mistress Nimue?" the commander inquired as he beheld the ripped and tattered wounds and gashes all over her slender yet muscular back.

"How does it look?" she half rasped, half drawled. The exhaustion was taking its toll on her, visibly as well as audibly. Arthur and Tristan observed the bloody mess more closely. It looked like the outcome of pure carnage.

"Gruesome." Arthur assessed.

"Bone's showing through." The scout quipped with a voice completely devoid of emotion, though he also drawled a bit.

"That's exactly how it feels." Nimue deadpanned. Guinevere squeezed her friend's hand reassuringly.

"So, two to three days." Arthur went on, seemingly to no one in particular, though his eyes were directed at the healer. Bryn seemed to wish he were at the opposite end of the world at this point, especially as Tristan had taken out one of his numerous smaller daggers and let it twirl between his fingers demonstratively, as if to emphasize his skill. Bryn gulped under the half-Briton's hard gaze and nodded.

"Spies and scouts constantly observe the Saxons. There are several message lines, too. We will know of every new development almost as soon as it happens." Guinevere felt the urge to elaborate. "Even if they got moving this instant they'd need at least two days to reach the wall." She stifled a yawn, then fixed Arthur's green eyes with her own dark ones. "You should get some rest; all of you."

Arthur hesitated for a moment, seemed to search Guinevere's eyes for any sign of insincerity, but rose when he found none, his mind made up to trust the Woad – for now at least. Tristan let his hazel eyes wander over the other woman's silent form before fixing the other two in his piercing, unremitting gaze briefly. Then he turned to follow his commander.

* * *

Eventually everyone retired to sleep in the fort: the ordinary inhabitants; the refugees, many of whom had found shelter with remote relatives or in barracks, stables or store rooms. Lady Fulcinia and her son had been given one of the adjacent chambers to those the bishop claimed. The knights returned to their respective quarters, Lancelot sharing his with his sister and Galahad giving up his bed for the siblings Lucan and Maeve. The youngest knight would share the room of his best friend Gawain for the time being. Bors went to re-possess his bedside in Vanora's house and he held his lover tighter than possibly ever before.

* * *

_Alright, not much action in this one. It's more of an aftermath of battle/interlude kind of thing. _

_Did you have a look at the link I posted on my profile? Did it work? What do you think of my selection? It was just an idea I had after all. Maybe it was counterproductive? Oh dear, please tell me, tell me all!_


	12. Chapter 11

_Tadaaah, the next bit of rising tension before impending dooooooooooooooooom!_

* * *

11.

Bishop Germanius was anxious to leave the fort early the next day after providing a humble funeral for his late ally Marius Honorius. It was a very sombre affair, although not particularly filled with honest mourning. Apart from his legionaries only the bishop and the remainder of Marius' family attended the short service at the first light of dawn. It was also a most curt business, Germanius clearly eager not to spend any more time than absolutely necessary on this hellish island he loathed so much. Arthur watched from afar as the soldiers lowered Marius' linen-wrapped body into a hastily dug grave and Germanius hastened his prayers so much that he often stumbled over words. Suddenly – with the ever alert instincts of a soldier – he sensed a presence behind his back. Upon turning around he discovered the Woad girl Guinevere.

"I am not sorry to have killed him." She said in a neutral tone.

"No one would expect you to." Arthur returned. He held no regard for the man either. "They will leave within the hour." He further remarked. Guinevere did not comment, but instead drew her cloak tighter around her slender frame to shield her from the chilly morning mist.

"I bring news from my people." She began anew, coal-dark eyes still trained on the Romans on the far side of the fort's cemetery.

"About the Saxons."

"Yes." She had snuck out before dawn, taken one of the secret passageways along the wall and met with her father.

"What makes you think I care?" Arthur inquired. A few days of collaboration could not erase a lifetime of distrust.

"If you did not, would you not go to Rome with them?"

"I see you are no fool, Mistress Guinevere." Arthur stated and turned towards the fort. "This message of yours, is it urgent?"

"No. It can wait." Guinevere said falling into step with him. "Perhaps arrangements ought to be made for the people to evacuate though."

* * *

By far the larger funeral procession took place a bit later in the day. The sun had fully risen now, touching the world beneath it with the silver-white light of a clear winter's day. Iosante walked up front, heading the procession. A crutch made from wood aided her steps. In her other hand she carried Dagonet's sword. Since she was the only one among them to remember them as a whole she quietly chanted the traditional words of mourning, the pleas to their gods to guide the fallen warrior's soul safely to the afterlife. The knights and their commander carried the bier with their comrade's body up cemetery hill. The short night showed clearly in the dark shadows under their reddened eyes. Vanora and her children as well as many of the fort's inhabitants followed, Maeve and her brother being right at the front of that section because Vanora would not let the sibling's out of her sight. Finally the two Woads formed the very end of the silent procession. Once having reached the grave hole the men solemnly lowered Dagonet's body into it with the head facing north, as it was custom, while Iosante carefully piled up wood and incenses. The knights, upon letting go of the ropes they had used for lowering the bier, took the shovels that had remained at the site from the previous night and began to fill up the grave again. The people stood by, mostly in silence. Some cried, some prayed, without exception they looked sad and mournful. Dagonet had been well liked and respected throughout the fort.

Once done the men put the shovels away and stood aside with deadpan expressions that were designed not to betray too much emotion, five pairs of Sarmatian eyes expectantly trained at Iosante. The blond woman, who had been chanting and praying all along, now stopped to ignite the little pile of wood. The flame caught on quickly. It was a symbol of the domestic hearth, the heart of the home, and supposed to fend off the evil spirits that lurk around. Putting all her weight on her good leg she laid her crutch aside and picked up the fallen knight's sword, raising it high above her head. With a full-bodied voice she called out to their gods:

"_Today we give you a most brave warrior; today we say farewell to a trusted comrade, a respectable man, much revered among allies and enemies alike. Today we send his soul to you in the hopes that you may guide him safely through your divine realms. In your mercy, o gods, it lies to bestow upon him the honour he deserves. Shall he be reborn. Today we lose a friend and you shall gain a hero!" _

She looked ghostly almost as she stood at the far side of the grave, the by now considerable smoke wafting around her as she still held the mighty sword high above her head. With one quick motion she rammed the weapon into the ground near Dagonet's head with a strength that betrayed her frail appearance.

"The smoke..." Galahad remarked quietly.

"To the east." Gawain stated.

"Homewards ... and into the direction of the rising sun." Lancelot proclaimed.

"At least ... a good sign." Said Tristan. It proposed that the gods would be merciful and greet Dagonet's soul in the afterlife as he deserved. Perchance one day he would come back to them as a mighty stallion – if they lived that long.

After bidding their individual farewells the people dispersed. It was well into the day and Dagonet's grave covered in little charms and sacrifices when the mass of them had returned to the fort and adjoining small town. Still solemn, but with a feeling of closure, the Sarmatians finally headed that way, too. Only the Woads had remained with them. Guinevere and Nimue were now trudging along a few steps behind. After giving her friend's hand a light squeeze Guinevere closed the few steps between herself and Arthur, quietly relaying to him what she had found out about the Saxon's current state in the early morning. Upon reaching the houses she looked around to find the space behind her deserted. Stopping dead in her tracks Guinevere eyed the green hills intently, in case Nimue had simply fallen behind, but there was no one to be seen.

"What is it?" Arthur questioned worriedly upon seeing the frown upon the woman's face.

"Nimue has vanished, apparently."

"And where to?"

"I don't know."

* * *

A slightly warmer wind came from the southwest, causing the top layer of snow to melt only to turn into ice later on when the wind would turn and freshen. The Briton walked between the corpse-like forms of gigantic warriors solemnly. Most men slept at this hour. It would have been dark if not for the almost full moon and the white snow that reflected its light. The Briton crept on through the encampment and towards a tree on the edge of the forest. He never felt comfortable amidst all those rough men. Brutes, he thought bitterly. Once having reached a tree to his liking he wrapped his woollen cloak tighter around himself and crouched down, allowing as little as possible of his body to be exposed to the cold.

"You look horrid." Came a voice from above. The Briton froze, believing to have lost his mind. Was this all too familiar voice just a machination of his conscience? Carefully he chanced a look around. Nothing. No one but sleeping Saxons.

"Up." The voice commanded. After making sure no one of the invaders was watching him he raised his head. Indeed it was her. Either she was really here or his mind was playing tricks on him so that now he not only heard but even saw these haunting figments of his imagination.

"How do you even come to be here?" he asked. Even if this was all just in his head that didn't mean he couldn't take solace in a known presence.

"I saw you on the ice." She shifted slightly in the tree above him so that she could lean down further without being seen.

"You look absolutely horrible, brother." She stated again. Indeed he had neither eaten nor slept properly for almost a week, since they had come and made him a traitor. He was thin and ghastly pale. His eyes were numb, red and with deep shadows underneath them. Grief and guilt had carved themselves into his features. Her eyes spelt out very clearly what she thought of him at this point.

"You don't understand," he feebly began. By now he leant his head against the tree trunk and faced upwards so that in case some Saxons eyes fell on him it would not look as suspicious. "I never was as tough, as brave and fearless as you, never as daring. All I ever wanted was a quiet, peaceful life." He paused, overwhelmed by the pressure of the last few days of his life.

"You had that. You had a family, a solid house in a village..."

"You still don't understand!" he interrupted, his tone taking on an edge of desperation. She shushed and told him to keep his voice down. "They –they came out of nowhere. They slaughtered everyone, woman, man or child, young and old. They killed my wife, my Rhian – they cut her down without mercy. They wanted to ...to..." here his voice denied him service completely and it took him a lot of effort not to break down into tears.

"You may call me a coward and a traitor, little sister, but I did it for my children. Where I couldn't save my beloved wife I had to at least try and protect my daughters."

"I wish I could help you, but there is nothing I can do to save your life, brother." She said darkly. He nodded, having expected as much. He knew his actions doomed him forevermore. "I may be able to save some of your reputation however, if you are willing to help me."

"Just promise me this one thing, Nim. Promise to look after my two little girls. Do that for me as much as for them and I shall not die in vain."

"I promise it, Niall. Once the Saxons are beaten I shall see to it that Raelyn and Cerys are taken good care of." She replied thickly. "Now I need to know some things."

* * *

Nimue left her brother with a heavy heart. Recklessly she spurred her horse on, determined to make it back to the wall before the next night. It would not be possible with a less sturdy horse. Her little grey mare had unrivalled stamina. She hoped that Guinevere wouldn't kill her right away upon her return, but give her a chance to explain her actions, and, more importantly, relay her findings. Her friend would be furious, absolutely furious. She wondered as to the reactions of the knights when she suddenly reappeared – after vanishing without a word. Nimue sighed. This impending war was drawing every last bit out of her, her family, her people... it pained her that she couldn't save her brother, but with the road he had taken there was nothing she could have done for him. Biting back the tears she forced herself to look forward. Niall was doomed, but she could still be there for her nieces. The little girls were only five and four years old and would soon be fully orphaned. They needed to beat back the Saxon menace! With or without the knights – if it were for her without them – they now needed to win back their country for their children. The following generations of Britons had to be free. That was her dream and she would sacrifice everything for it – even her only brother.

All the way back she racked her brain for a good plan. They were going to be vastly outnumbered, even if they raised every rebel soul in the realm. It looked bleak. They were going to have to use every last bit of advantage to succeed. Gods, help Briton! They were within an inch of perishing. Nimue thought back to the previous morning, pictured the exotic ceremony of the Sarmatians in her head – suddenly she had an idea. It would not help much perhaps, but it was worth a try. On the other hand it relied on cavalry, which the rebels didn't have. No, she had to devise a plan that didn't incorporate the Sarmatians.

And then the children. Niall had said that he had been allowed to send them off into the woods. They would have encountered rebels there sooner or later who hopefully had been sensible enough to see to it that the two little girls were cared for, perhaps brought into one of their secret encampments or a village that had not been sacked by the Saxon horde. Nimue dared not think what might become of them otherwise. She adored her little nieces so dearly. They were the only family, at least in regards to blood relation, left to her. How traumatic this must be for them! Seeing their home destroyed, their friends killed, their mother slaughtered right before their very eyes, being sent off into uncertainty. If nobody found them how long could they survive alone in the forest in winter? They were clever and tough cookies, sure, and Nimue had taught them as much as possible. They were children of this country and used to its harshness. But, alas, they were still so little. She couldn't afford the time it would take to go and look for them. Plus it made little sense to take them where the battle was to ensue. All she could do was pray and hope, yet hope almost evaded her at this point. Gods have mercy on the innocent children.

* * *

_Alright, I got this wonderful booklet about the Sarmatians that will help me a great deal in developing my stories from now on. The stuff about the funeral rites I researched, but didn't find much more than a skeleton of data. The things about the head pointing north and about the fire, where the direction of the smoke forecasts the deceased's afterlife is what I found, the gaps were filled by my own imagination. Hope you like. _

_As always comment, cause it makes me very happy. Also, if that's not asked too much, wish me luck tomorrow (monday) for I have to write a big class test. _

_Bye!_


	13. Chapter 12

_Tadaah!!!_

_After much work, and with great thanks to my wonderful new beta reader sacerdotessa, I present the next installment! Hopefully this will finally motivate some of you (back) into action, into reviewing action to be precise. Admittedly, I felt quite sad and neglected lately, because people just keep adding this story on lists, but don't take the trouble to communicate with me. :(_

* * *

12.

The Sarmatians had retired to their usual table in Vanora's tavern, but tonight was not to be spent with raucous drinking. There was far too much to debate.

Arthur gathered all the people in the market square at around midday, announcing that a Saxon force two thousand strong would be arriving, at the earliest, three days from then. He gave them the choice to either pack up and move south or stay and help defend the frontier. Surprisingly merely the last few Roman families took up the offer. Apart from that every Briton, no matter what age or state of health, was intent on staying. The Sarmatians were undecided which path to follow and the issue became the focal point of many discussions from then on.

Even before the knights had been dragged into this whole ordeal, Gawain had pointed out that they had been in this life longer than the other. With a country now completely overrun by Huns and their allied Alans, as Iosante had reported, there was even less hope to find some long lost relative at home. What, exactly, were they to return to anyway? But they were free men now. Had they not waited for more than fifteen years now to be released from the Roman yoke? All this time the rebels had been their decided enemies. That was nothing what a few stressful days and two pretty girls could easily undo. Arthur seemed intent on staying, though he had not officially committed himself to the cause. Could they leave their revered commander, their friend and blood brother to almost certain slaughter? Their service to Rome was a done business, but what about their allegiance to Arthur? If anything the Sarmatian knights unanimously decided to stay at least till the first Saxons appeared north of the wall. Until then they made themselves useful by providing the peasants with desperately needed basic fight training.

* * *

Since their arrival the weather had turned to more pleasant climates again. The sun, though not particularly warming, stood high and a steady, mild breeze came from the south east. The people, being too numerous for the training grounds, had gathered on the wide pastures between settlement and wall. Each man between the age of fourteen and sixty could be equipped with a sword, axe, lance or at least a long knife from the fort's armoury. Even thus equipped, the real prospects of survival for the feckless villagers looked bleak. The blacksmith and his apprentice spent day and night sharpening and mending. A few dozen bows and an abundance of arrows were there, but essentially useless without skilled archers to put them to use. Alas, they had to make do with what was available. A sufficient amount of knives and daggers, sometimes required from the kitchens, could be supplied so that at least no adult Briton within the fort would have to go unarmed. The Sarmatians split up mostly, so that the training of the peasants, however brief, could have maximum effect. Thus it came that Arthur, Lancelot and Bors oversaw the handling of swords, axes and lances. Tristan, with the assistance of Iosante, tried his best to instruct at least some in basic archery, while Galahad and Gawain, often being assisted by Guinevere, had taken it upon themselves to show those who could or should not be on the battlefield how to defend themselves. Mainly these were the elderly, the children and some women, mostly those who were mothers and could not leave their children alone. Among all those Vanora was there – with her entire brood – as well as her new, somewhat adopted children Maeve and Lucan. The russet haired tavern owner took a fierce stance, brandishing her largest knife and looking generally menacing, so much so that it would likely have caused a Saxon to back down, if only for a moment of surprise. There was no doubt this lioness of a woman would defend her offspring to the last breath. Maeve however eyed the thin, long dagger she had been given with suspicion and unmasked disgust and made no real attempt whatsoever to do more than dodge the other woman's blows. Galahad sighed, breaking off the current sparring match, and crossed his arms. The young healer pursed her lips, flung the dagger to the ground and looked on defiantly. Her ribs still hurt like hell with every wrong movement and an energy-drawing sparring match was not really designed to lift her mood in that regard. Plus for all her meekness she would not be forced to do what she did not approve of.

"Maeve..." Galahad began, annoyance tainting his tone.

"I aim to heal wounds, not inflict them." she curtly summed up her philosophy and narrowed her green eyes at the taller knight.

"Maeve, if you do not inflict wounds on those that will attack you there will be no chance to heal the wounds of those you hold dear." He reasoned. "Would you have your brother die in favour of your ideals? Or your aunt? Iosante or Guinevere? Or Vanora and the children? Or anyone here?" he knew he shouldn't have been this harsh, but she was driving him mad with her dogmatic pacifism. The comment did not fail to take its effect on her. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. She caught herself and proceeded to glare at him and cross her arms, mirroring Galahad's defensive stance. Tensions were running high among all the inhabitants of the fort and the two young people were no exception. Realizing that more aggressiveness would only be counterproductive Galahad tried to relax his tense muscles and resorted to speaking more softly.

"Look, no one here is doing this because their particularly fond of violent bloodbaths, but that is what's about to happen. When it comes down to it it's either the Saxons or you. You have to learn how to defend yourself." He beseeched. A mix of emotion played over her features. The frail healer looked to her little brother, her aunt, Guinevere and lastly Vanora, attempting to read some judgement in their eyes. Having found it she gave up her resolve for the time being. Maeve exhaled slowly and gingerly picked up the weapon she had dropped.

"Fine, what do I have to do?" Maeve muttered darkly. Galahad smiled in relief and hurried to her side, giving Vanora a sign to ready herself to attack. Gently he put his hand on Maeve's, correcting the way she held the dagger and stood behind her to direct her movements, all the while explaining. Vanora charged, aiming for the throat of her opponent. Galahad had the two of them swerve aside, dodging the blow and in one swift movement made a full turn so that the attacking Vanora's back was now fully exposed to them. Decidedly he thrust forward, stopping just in time before piercing the tavern owner's neck. Galahad could feel her fingers tremble under his own.

"And now you try on your own."

* * *

Another issue was the mystery of the vanished Woad. Nimue had evaporated into thin air it appeared. Not even any Woad scouts, whose reports got into the fort via Guinevere on a regular basis now, had seen her. Bors, ever distrustful of the native rebel, proposed that she had simply turned her tattered back on the predicament and fled. Galahad was tempted to buy into that idea, though he could not combat the serious doubts that plagued him. Was it really that simple? She had risked her life and health in pulling Dagonet out of the lake. Gawain pointed this out constantly, but on the other hand had no explanation for what could have driven her away. Lancelot meanwhile became her most ardent defender. The way he saw it the unpredictable Woad warrior with such straightforward ideas of honour must have had her reasons for what she did, but would never put the goal she had devoted her life to – freeing her homeland from foreign invaders – at risk. The dark-haired knight believed she was planning something, and, more importantly, that she would return eventually. If Tristan had any view whatsoever on the topic he kept it to himself. Perhaps he didn't care. Overall, this was the topic of the most heated discussions and often enough they'd almost be on each other's throats. Dagonet's mediating calm was sorely missed.

* * *

On the third day after their return to the wall they were in their usual place, their drinking now again on the border between moderate and massive. The topic of conversation by now had returned to another aspect of their numerous discussions that had taken place before the `Roman Disaster´ as they callously referred to it.

"You on that again, 'bout beautiful Sarmatian women?" Bors jeered, letting his huge bear prank beat down on the table repeatedly. The vibrations he caused prompted Galahad and Lancelot to quickly pick up their tankards lest any of the precious ale be spilled. Normally the addressed Gawain would have come back with a reply at this point, but instead just raised an eyebrow at his loud comrade as it seemed.

"You say that as if it were a thing of complete impossibility." Declared a voice from behind Bors with dangerous calm. The gigantic knight almost choked on his laughter as he heard these words. Ashen white, he grimaced at his fellow knights.

"She's standing right behind me, isn't she?" The others could only nod silently, although the odd amused smile tugged at their lips.

"Well, you're all doing a mighty fine job defending my honour." Iosante scolded mildly and gave the main offender a not-so-gentle whack on the back of his bald skull. With a devious grin she squeezed in between Galahad and Gawain and spoke: "I dare you to make it up to me."

"How do you mean, Yosa?" Lancelot asked his sister teasingly, utilizing the affectionate pet form of her name that usually worked in softening her up.

"Compliments, you impossible lot!" she sighed with mock exasperation. "If you're so intent on getting wives, especially from our people, I strongly suggest you learn how to stroke the female ego. I humbly offer my assistance for this endeavour."

"You start." She said, nudging Galahad's shoulder. "Pretend I was your wife. For some unknown reason I'm terribly annoyed with you, so tell me something nice. Come on!" Iosante, with a huge grin plastered on her face, was clearly enjoying this little game. She was and always had been a big flirt and relished the effect she could have on men. Galahad fidgeted nervously and shot an unsure glance at Lancelot, who didn't as to yet seem terribly bothered with his sister's antics. Yet.

"Ahm, you look very pretty tonight, ahm... dear?" The young knight attempted hesitantly.

"Is that all?" the blonde woman inquired, furrowing her brows in mock impatience.

"Even more so than usually?" he elaborated, growing ever more uncomfortable.

"Basic, sweetheart, very basic, but I see much room for improvement." Iosante judged benevolently. "Now the next one. Impress me, sirs."

Lancelot's lips quirked up in a bemused smile. His sister knew how to play people. She had posed them with a challenge, fully aware of the fact that their natural competitiveness would not let them pass on the opportunity.

"You're a menace with a bow." Gawain remarked appreciatively, though in his usual understated way. Nevertheless Iosante broke into a wide smile at this, basking in the compliment especially as it was directed at her skills as a warrior.

"Now that's what I call a compliment! Thank you, my friend. I appreciate it."

Just as she was about to go on, a shouting and yelling could be heard from outside. One look of mutual understanding passed between them, then the Sarmatians rose and pushed their way through the quickly gathering crowd of people, towards the source of the commotion.

* * *

"Open the gate." A visibly drawn-out Nimue demanded with all the authority she could muster. The guard up on the wall, a boy of maybe sixteen, looked uncertain. He hesitated, not even willing to call for someone higher up if he was clearly not willing to take responsibility for allowing a stranger from the notoriously dangerous north into the fort. The boy's indecision irritated her greatly. After having been away for almost three days without much food or rest, most of the time spent on horseback, her normally boundless energy was now dwindling so that she had trouble even staying in the saddle.

"Get someone here then, lad." She ground out. Her head ached as if the insides of her skull were lined with tiny needles.

"But who, mistress?" the boy asked feebly. He was wary of leaving his post, lest the stranger find a way to climb the walls and wreak havoc within the settlement. He would be made responsible.

"A knight, or even better, the commander Arthur Castus; even the lady Guinevere!" she almost yelled in exasperation, "Just be gone and hurry, lad, I'm freezing my arse off!"

The mention of these people along with her decided insistence seemed to be enough to convince the boy. He took off running along the wall, but did not fail to notify one of his comrade's further off to keep a close watch on the late visitor. Nimue exhaled slowly and slumped in her seat. She truly hoped that Guin would not be the first person the young guard came across. Her friend might well be in the mood to strangle her with bare hands at this point. On the other hand, as soon as the other Woad was up on the wall Nimue was in relative security, which might give her just the opportunity to explain herself. Unless Guinevere brought a bow; then she was doomed.

It did not take long for some figures to appear on top of Hadrian's Wall, only it was so dark by now that the exhausted Woad could hardly make out the faces.

"Who is this?" a deep, male voice spoke up. Nimue allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It was Arthur.

"It is I, Nimue." She rasped. Her throat was dry and raw. She hoped her voice had remained recognizable, for the lighting conditions made it hard to tell which shadowy figure belonged to whom. The shadow whom she thought to be Arthur leant towards another to his left. Apparently they were discussing her request to be let in. Warily Nimue glanced over her shoulder, back into the pitch black forest. Never before in her life had she been so paranoid, but just like the hundreds of times before there was no Saxon charging at her.

"Mistress Nimue?" Asked another voice. Dear, now the exhaustion was starting to affect her hearing as well. Was this Lancelot, Gawain or someone else entirely? Tristan perhaps? She did not know the sound of the silent scout's voice as well as the others. He spoke so little.

"Yes, the very same, Sir _Two Blades_." She chanced. A light snickering could be heard up on high.

"That must have been a very urgent business if you had to leave so quickly and found yourself unable to inform anyone of your whereabouts." The voice stated with a trace of bemusement.

"Good sirs, I beg you. Just let me in and I shall spare you no detail." Nimue promised. Her horse was already in the process of falling asleep here and now. More whispering could be heard. After what seemed like an eternity the heavy gates finally moved, opening just wide enough that a horse and rider could squeeze through.

* * *

_Well, I hope sacerdotessa and I managed to clear out all the points that were kind of unclear in my first drafts. I did rewrite the entire ending scene however, cause it just felt wrong and I could not get a grip on the first version. _

_To sacerdotessa: Arthur addresses Guinevere as 'Mistress' early in the last chapter and also uses the same formal address for Nimue a few chapters earlier, before the battle on the frozen lake. _

_Lastly, for all who care: This story is _

_-on the Alert lists of 16 -members_

_-on Favourites List of 5_

_-has received 2510 hits alltogether up until now_

_-is now 55 pages and 27 950 words long in Microsoft Word_

_-has received 20 comments_

_If everyone who has this on Alert and/or Favourites left just one feedback it would have twice as many and that is a fact that would greatly help me in recovering from the mean, nasty cold I've caught this week in the Siberian cold we've had here recently (-15° Celsius). Feel truly wretched. Have almost sneezed my nose off. _


	14. Chapter 13

_Slowly but surely battle is coming towards our heroes ... tension keeps building up ... who is still with me and our brave fighters at this point? The honourable Knights of the Round Table need your support. _

* * *

13.

Slowly the stout grey mare trotted through the gate. Arthur and his knights quickly descended the stairs down from the wall, Iosante hobbling after them with the help of her crutch. Nimue could barely stifle a yawn. Stretching her sore back she attempted to dismount, but found it to be impossible without crumpling to the muddy ground. Luckily a pair of strong arms caught her just in time and she found herself face to face with the handsome knight with the black curls. Lancelot wore a smug grin, which quickly faded upon seeing the deep, dark circles under Nimue's bloodshot eyes.

"You won't be smilin' anymore after I've told y'all what I found out." She slurred exhaustedly.

"We'll see about that, Mistress Nimue," Lancelot quipped, having regained his countenance, and steadied her slender frame, "For the time being I shall be merry, because you have just earned me a free drink." She scowled, wondering what he was on about. The group started walking towards the houses, the horse steadily following its mistress. "You see, Bors and I made a bet about whether you would return or not. You being here now means I've won."

She looked over to the large, bald man, who scowled even harder and mustered glanced at her with unveiled distrust. Nimue was undecided whether to be glad that one of her former mortal enemies had sided with her or to be enraged that such serious matters were but a game for the oh-so-legendary Sarmatian knights.

"Well, I am glad at least someone profits from the demise of my family!" she snapped. Briskly she shook off Lancelot's hands and marched away. A rising wrath always energized her. Now the knights and especially the invalidated Iosante had trouble keeping up with the Woad.

"My, you really have a way with women." Bors mocked with dripping irony. Only a warning glance from Arthur could prevent them from starting a serious brawl. The constant tension in the air was driving everyone to the brink of sanity.

"Demise of her family?" Iosante questioned, confusion evident on her face, and linked her arm with Gawain's.

"Whatever that means." The blond knight frowned gravely.

* * *

After handing the reigns of her horse over to a stable hand Nimue chanced a cautious glance around. The knights and Iosante had caught up with her, but luckily enough Guinevere was nowhere to be seen. Arthur led them towards the great hall and in time everyone was seated. A servant poured some cups of water mixed with a squirt of wine, one of which Nimue gladly took to soothe her dry throat. Just when she was about to begin her report the heavy wooden doors were yanked open and an absolutely livid Guinevere stormed into the room. By the murderous look in her dark eyes, one could tell the Woad woman was in no mood for lenience. To say that she felt merely betrayed would have been a grave understatement.

"You were gone for almost three days!!!" Guinevere yelled accusingly and charged towards her childhood friend. The men, except for Tristan and Bors, rose. Nimue jumped up from her seat and pushed past them as swiftly as a wild cat, eventually using one of the unoccupied chairs on the opposite side of her previous seat as a shield.

"Please, Guin, if you only let me explain..." she begged. If nothing else this proved that she was serious, for if what she had to report were not crucially important she would never swallow her pride so. Yet Guinevere, feeling the sharp, poisonous sting of betrayed trust, had no mind to listen to her friend's pleas. Instead she lunged at the other woman again, who could only just barely save herself by leaping over the wooden surface of the table and into the free space in its middle. Nimue breathed heavily at this point. Her legs were trembling and slowly she retreated until she felt the edge of the table hit the back of her thighs. The men, now directly behind her, were at a loss however. How were they supposed to respond to the irrational behaviour of the one Woad chasing the other all across the hall? It was a fine trap Nimue had gotten herself into there. Apparently it was in her heritage. The members of her family always managed to get themselves into the most impossible situations, and often enough it proved to be their undoing.

"Please, listen to me..." the raven-haired woman pleaded softly. Guinevere attempted to cross the obstacle in front of her so she could strangle the woman whom she had, until quite recently, regarded as her sister.

"Guinevere!" Arthur cut in decidedly. "Leave her be." Curious how the formal address of `Mistress´ had slipped at some point during these last three days. Realizing his public display was lacking propriety Arthur froze for a second, but then decided to shrug it off. Let the others make of it what they wished. A knowing smirk crept onto the scout's features. Guinevere fixed her piercing gaze on the commander for a moment, the furious glints in her eyes bearing prophesy to quite a temper.

"You're protecting a traitor, _sir_." She fumed pointedly, upon which many eyebrows were either raised or furrowed in confusion.

"No!" the wrongly accused cried, "If that were true then why would I come back? Please, all I ask is..."

At this point a drinking cup, being hurled at her face, cut her off. Apparently Guinevere had decided that skipping over the table would only allow the other to escape to the outside of the round piece of furniture again.

"Stop this madness immediately!" Arthur demanded with as much authority as he could possibly summon. But to no avail. Already Nimue was dodging the next cup. Lancelot, who was standing behind her, also had to duck, the object-turned-missile barely missing his head.

"Guin, I'm not a traitor, Niall is!" the raven-haired Woad exclaimed desperately, using up her last defence. Apparently this did the trick as Guinevere instantly let the cup she held drop to the floor.

"Framing your own brother won't save your wretched skin." The brunette woman hissed after a shockingly silent second. Nimue paled visibly.

"For the love of mercy, hear me out!" she demanded aggravatedly. "The Saxon leader forced him to be their guide. You know as well as I that he's not exactly the bravest person out there, but that's not important right now because a bloody army of two thousand will arrive here in exactly four days!"

Guinevere seemed unsure now, her anger beginning to dwindle. A pang of guilt stole onto her delicate features for the length of a heartbeat, but quickly faded. To be completely honest to it was more hurt pride than anything else that wound her up. Deep inside she knew that Nimue was possibly the most loyal person walking the face of the earth; the most loyal and devoted rebel she was for sure. Still, Guinevere could not simply give up her resolve. She had always trusted this woman infinitely, and she wanted to be able to do so in the future as well.

"Guinevere, by the memory of my late father I swear that I would never become a traitor. I apologize for not telling you of my plans. I knew you would never have let me go."

"Just what exactly is wrong with you Woads?" Tristan muttered. No sooner had the last word left the scout's lips that he found himself under fire from the two native women, now once again united, at least in the grave offence they took at the derogatory term. Tristan could only just evade the object flung in his general direction by Guinevere, but that resulted in Nimue's hitting him square in the jaw. Somewhat vexed that his comment had drawn such a hot-blooded reaction he absentmindedly rubbed the sore spot on his chin. Already it was purpling and by the next morning would have bruised spectacularly.

"_How dare you, you ignorant brute?"_ Guinevere hissed in her native tongue, somewhat glad to have found someone to rightly take her wrath out on now, and Nimue added: "Woad is a _plant_. Do we look like plants to you?"

"We are Celts by people..."

"...Britons by nationality..."

"...and Picts by tribe." It went back and forth between the two women rapidly. Galahad at this point had clearly given up on any chance of de-escalation and slouched in his seat. Gawain and Lancelot leant their full weight onto the table, considering whether it would be wise to remove further small objects from the reach of the two women. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose helplessly. He felt a giant headache building up inside his skull.

"Enough!" Iosante spoke up forcefully, her words accompanied by the sound of her heavy crutch thundering on the stone floor loudly before someone could come to any serious harm. "You behave like little children! I say everyone be calm and sit and let Mistress Nimue finally tell us what she found out on her expedition." She had that dangerous glint in her eyes again. The same look her mother would get when, once again, she had to keep her four little rascals from ripping each other apart. It was not a mood to be argued against and, despite the fact that the slender Sarmatian woman would not have stood the hint of a chance to actually physically force them to do what she proposed, the power of her authority in this moment proved to be enough to bring everyone back to reason. The men sat back down and Guinevere also drew a chair next to her Sarmatian friend.

"One day we will look back on this, laugh nervously and change the topic." Lancelot joked in a futile attempt to lighten the mood. The odd grin crept onto some of the faces, but looked utterly forced. Nevertheless, they relaxed a slightly. Arthur gestured for Nimue to begin relaying her findings. She pointed to the floor, which showed a mosaic of a rather large and beautifully detailed map of the area. She began at the battle on the frozen lake and how she had recognized her brother on the other side with the Saxons. From her fellow rebels' observations she knew where the enemy had gathered and decided to head that way. Once arrived at their makeshift camp on Marius Honorius' estate, Nimue had sought out her brother, Niall, eventually persuading him to tell her everything he knew about their attackers.

"Firstly, the army we are about to face is made up of mercenaries, not only Saxons but also Angles, Danes and other Germanic and Scandinavian tribes. Their leader is a Saxon general acting on his own accord." Nimue said, tracing the movements of the invaders on the map.

"A rogue general?" Arthur asked, quickly mulling over the implications in his head. If the southern Saxon kingdom of Mercia supported this aggression there was a good chance they would be faced with a war on two fronts, in which case they would doubtlessly be crushed. Not to speak of the fact that then their escape route would be cut off.

"Mercia does not officially back his actions; however I strongly suspect they will be pleased if he succeeds."

"He fancies himself as a second Hannibal." The half-Roman commander sighed.

"Hannibal was defeated eventually." Snorted Lancelot. "Even if it was by Romans."

"After more than fifteen years of rampaging through Italy."

"And Rome has withdrawn from here." Galahad threw in.

"We have nowhere near the numbers necessary to throw against them." Guinevere argued.

"Anyway," Nimue said loudly, bringing the minds back to the issues at hand. "There is unrest among his soldiers. Two mutineers were executed by that general himself to stop an uprising among the Danish section of his troops. Plus they have provisions for less than a week left. All villages within the radius of a three-day march have either been destroyed or deserted."

Arthur nodded gravely. At least that deprived the attacking force of the resources for besieging the fort. All of these pieces of information were significant for tactical considerations.

"Wouldn't it be possible to simply lock them out?" Gawain inquired. "After all, their advantage in numbers only takes effect in actual battle and Hadrian's Wall has been a nearly insurmountable obstacle for centuries now."

"In principle you're right, but they know that." Nimue elaborated, striding across the large map as she spoke. "They carry with them large battery rams, heavy and equipped with iron, which can bring down gates and even walls. The Roman's villa was but a sad pile of bricks when I arrived there last night. With this weapon they will force their way through the wall gate. It is no real obstacle for them."

"So battle is inevitable." Galahad evaluated darkly.

"You said four days exactly. What makes you so sure?" Lancelot inquired, leaning forward in his chair.

"This is the fastest way from the Roman's estate to the wall that can be travelled with such a large number of people." Nimue explained, pointing to a trail on the map that led south between the mountains. "For an army this size it is near impossible to make it in less than two days, but the way is blocked here." She circled a passageway that ran between an especially narrow part of the mountain range. "They'll have to go back until here," she pointed to a crossroads several miles north-west, "And then take that way around the mountains." She ended, still tracing the thin lines that indicated roads on the map. "All in all, a journey of four days."

"Why is the road blocked there?" Arthur asked.

"There might have been a storm that knocked down some trees." Nimue answered with muted cheeriness, a smug grin curling her lips for the first time in days.

"But that's very mountainous terrain!" Guinevere cut in. "There are hardly any trees there."

"Then again I might have encountered some of our fellow rebels on my way back and seen to it that the way is sufficiently clogged." Nimue replied with an even wider grin now, though it did not quite reach her eyes.

"And your brother knows of all this?" Arthur questioned, brows knitted together in worry. Her face fell blank, not allowing any emotion to be visible to the outside world. "He chose his fate. There is nothing that anyone can do for him now."

* * *

_Notes from the author:_

_Hannibal: Hannibal Barca, brilliant Carthaginian general who lead the second Punic war and almost brought the fledgling Roman Republic, then an up-and-coming though still regional power, to the very brink of destruction. Famous for his daring crossing of the alps to invade from the north and for his war elephants. Created a deep-running trauma within the Roman mind so that centuries later the mere mention of his name still invoked fear and panic. His tactics and strategies impress to present day. His story is intriguing and epic and very bloody and I strongly recommend to find out more about it. _

_Of course I know the floor in the middle of the Round Table doesn't look as I described it in the movie, but I found my version handier, so grant me a little artistic license, ok? In the movie it's just some sort of very boring fireplace-thingy. I was inspired by the map room from the film "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" with Cate Blanchett and our not-yet-King Arthur as Sir Walter Raleigh. Very nice costumes and overall production design in that one, btw. They made Good Quen Bess a room with a floor that showed a map of Europe and then used it to show the movements of the fleets upon the attack of the Spanish Armada. Kind of made m want such a floor as well, I'd have rocked geography class :)_


	15. Chapter 14

_So, the next installment - and probably the last for a little while now, since I feel another evil writer's block rearing it's ugly head - give me a sign everyone who's still with me and our brave heroes, or I'll send a very pissed of Lancelot and an apple-deprived Tristan and perhaps some large, hairy, brutish Saxons after you!!! Might I point out that generously given reviews are generally regarded as being the best cure for writer's block? (*hint,hint*)_

* * *

14.

I all, they were five hundred and eighty-seven rebels, fifty-three peasants and possibly seven knights against two thousand invaders, give or take. Admittedly, this was not quite as badly outnumbered as ten going in against two hundred, but it was not a reason for celebrations either. At least the Saxons were in a rather desperate position as well. Granted, not nearly as desperate as that of the wall's defenders, but it was a struggle in which only one side could survive.

It had gotten so late that it was almost early again. Seeing the stifled yawns and heavy lids of the people around him Arthur decided to dissolve their discussions. It was no use with everyone passing out from exhaustion. Nimue worried him greatly. The Pict woman had been up longer than anyone of them. She was injured and underfed. Clinging on to the table for support she tried not to let it show, but what good did it do? Not one of the people in the great hall could concentrate at this point, making the ongoing debate about which tactics to pursue rather pointless. Rising from his seat, he proposed for everyone to go and catch at least a few hours of sleep before the sun rose.

* * *

Iosante sent her brother off with a smile, and Lancelot trotted into the direction of the knight's chambers leisurely, stretching his sore muscles. The blonde Sarmatian woman instead limped off to the stables; Dagonet's mighty stallion Barastyr had not taken well to his master's death either. It pained her steppe nomad heart to see the loyal animal look so dejected. There was barely any light in the stables, though that did not bother her as she slipped past the row of horses. Most of them were the stocky, sturdy Sarmatian breed, known especially for its stamina, speed and toughness. Slowly she made her way through, pausing ever so often to calm a horse if it felt disturbed by her presence. Galahad's level-headed little mare Anahita seemed to think, along with Tristan's moody Rustam, that some treats might be gained by nudging her playfully.

"Sorry, my dears. No apples tonight." Iosante whispered softly and gently pushed their noses away. Ghost eyed her with caution first, but upon identifying her demanded his fair share of attention. She paused for a moment to run her fingers through his thick black mane. The horse whinnied softly in appreciation. Arthur's white mare Llamrei and Bors' Tengri on the opposite side were as fast asleep as horses could possibly be. Taking the last few strides the Sarmatian finally arrived at Barastyr's box. The animal hadn't touched his haystack, just stared at the straw-covered floor with an air of profound depression. Slowly Iosante extended her hand towards the steed's dark coat. She had made it her habit to visit at least twice a day and try to cheer up Dagonet's loyal companion. So far it hadn't amounted to much more than Barastyr neither attacking nor shying away, which admittedly was a whole lot more than any of the stable hands could claim.

"Well, sweetie, I wonder who you were in your previous life." the woman said softly as she began to stroke the horse's neck.

* * *

"I see you're not only good in the handling of bow and arrow." A deep voice to her left spoke suddenly. She smiled. "In case your intention was to surprise me you failed rather miserably, Gawain." Iosante addressed the tawny-haired knight, "I knew you were there all along."

Slowly he stepped out of the dark beside his own horse, Gringolet, from where he had silently been watching the woman and horse interact. Gently he cupped her cheek with his calloused hand.

"Yosa, I..." he began, but was cut off immediately as she lightly placed her finger on his lips. The pale moonlight gave her eyes an almost eerie glow. She was dressed in some of the knight's old garments from when they had been but boys, since these came closest to properly fitting the slightly shorter and much thinner woman. Presently she wore one of her brother's black tunics, a pair of woollen breeches that might have once been Galahad's, and a warm jerkin from Gawain himself. She had untied her hair on the way to the stables, allowing thick, sand-coloured tresses to flow freely to her waist. Tenderly she let her finger trace the outline of his lips before stretching up and placing a gentle kiss upon them. His free arm snaked around her waist for support when they deepened the kiss. Iosante's arms went around Gawain's neck, bringing the taller man's face closer to her level. Eventually they had to break free though. Gasping for air he caressed her now flushed cheek.

"I suppose that's another way to put it." He breathed, enjoying the feeling of her slender fingers running through his hair.

"I hope you weren't too jealous earlier," she grinned cheekily, "In the tavern."

"It was just Galahad." The blond knight dismissed it nonchalantly and leant in to place other soft kisses on her cheek and neck. She giggled when his beard tickled her smooth skin.

"Ah yes, the Pup. He's such a darling, just like my Maeve. We have to find him a good, sweet wife when this is all over." Iosante said, fondly thinking of her Briton friend. Gawain growled discontentedly as he drew her closer. Granted they all got out of this alive Lancelot would very likely kill him for daring to love his sister. The dark-haired knight was protective like that. He sighed, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

"So you are in favour of fighting?" he inquired, referring to the ongoing dispute about whether to stay or leave.

"Lancelot opposes that strongly." she muttered darkly and stepped away, once again comforting Barastyr.

"He doesn't want to put you in danger." Gawain argued. "He's glad to have you back and afraid to lose you again..._as am I_." He whispered these last three words so softly that Iosante could not possibly have heard them. "Besides, this is not our fight, not our country and not our people." He continued, bitterness lacing his voice. She snorted dismissively.

"You don't hate it here, at least not nearly as much as you want to make yourselves believe."

Now it was the knight's turn to snort, yet he could not deny that subtle feeling gnawing away at his insides. She might be right.

* * *

The two secret lovers had finally made it to the knight's quarters, leaving them a few hours of sleep until morning. Gawain bade his good night with another passionate kiss, which Iosante eagerly returned. He watched this woman, who had managed to steal his heart away so easily it was shameful, slip through the door of Lancelot's chambers. Sighing, he turned for his own door, only to be greeted by a very much awake Galahad. One look passed between the two friends, who were at least as close as brothers.

"You tell him, I die, and I'm taking you with me." he warned the younger man darkly.

"Sure," Galahad grinned and flopped down on his cot. "Good choice, by the way."

The other grunted tiredly, intent on ending this conversation before it had the chance to go places where he did not want it to lead. Galahad would have none of it, however, the lack of sleep making him strangely giddy for reasons only known to himself.

"I guess Lancelot _will_ be spending a lot of time around your house then. It's really quite inevitable when you're going to marry his sister. I'd advise you not to use your axe on him, though. That would put a horrible strain on your relationship..."

"For mercy's sake! Shut up, Galahad." the blond knight growled, interrupting his fellow knight's ramblings, though under the cover of darkness, a content smile spread on the blond knight's features. _'Marry her, yes'_ he thought, _'if she would have me. And if we manage to survive...'_

_

* * *

_

Iosante closed the door behind her, careful to avoid making any sounds. Sure, the situation was dire, but she was in too high spirits right now to be concerned. Fanning her flushed cheeks with her hands she laid aside her crutch and limped over to where her brother lay in his wide bed, snoring softly. A smile crept onto her face as she remembered how their parents would put them to bed when they were little. All four siblings huddled closely together to shield themselves from the cold; they would listen to stories and songs until they were fast asleep. Luckily Lancelot's bed here was wide enough to hold two grown people, since it had been absolutely impossible to procure a spare bed from anywhere within the fort. Taking off the jerkin she bent down and gave his snoring form a light peck on the forehead. He always looked so vulnerable when sleeping. Settling beside his still form she successfully wrestled free a blanket and cuddled as close as possible to her beloved brother. Half-dreaming, he turned and placed an arm around her protectively, muttering unintelligible words under his breath. 'Brother, you definitely need a woman' she thought before falling into a deep slumber. 'A woman who can hand it back to you as good as you give.'

* * *

The sun rose brightly on the next morning. Way too early the sleep-deprived commander of the Sarmatian knights was up again, consolidating the organization within the fort. Guinevere came to him after he'd had a small breakfast and informed him that the Saxon army had begun marching south this very same day. He inquired about Nimue, worried because of her obviously poor state. The woman had looked a shadow of herself. Guinevere, consoled again after the previous night's conflict, informed him that she had had to get Maeve to give her rebel friend a potion to calm her, for otherwise Nimue would have just kept going until she literally passed out from exhaustion. At least her back was healing nicely, though some very nasty scars would remain.

"Just one thing I have always been wondering about," the commander began, "How do the rebels get across the wall and into the south?" The fond twinkle in his eyes betrayed that this was asked out of mere curiosity, rather than accusation. They were in the same boat now.

Guinevere locked eyes with Arthur who could be so fierce a fighter and then so gentle a man. Inwardly she wondered whether it had been included in her father's plan that she should feel so irrevocably drawn to him.

"There are secret passageways, tunnels," she explained, pointing to some locations on the map that lay spread on the table between them. "People can cross them, but nothing larger." He nodded in understanding. A grave frown formed on his forehead. He was severely troubled; a condition that could only be cured by either victory or death. She silently prayed for the first.

"You should tell your father to come to the southern side of the wall with his warriors." Arthur said. Guinevere placed her hand upon his affectionately, and he answered the gesture by lightly pressing his lips on her knuckles.

_

* * *

_

_Alright, some fluff to give our poor guys a break from all this harrowing we'll-probably-all-be-dead-by-the-end-of-the-week business. Also, a nod to the knight's so highly valued horses, which I have so shamefully neglected before. The names I used are mainly from Central Asian, Persian, Iranian, etc. mythology, were they belong to deities or legendary heroes or something of the sort. Llamrei (Arthur) and Gringolet (Gawain) are actually the names taken directly from Arthurian legend. _

_**PS. Enjoy and comment!!! The authority of King Arthur compels you!**_


	16. Chapter 15

_Alright, new update. I thank all my awesome new reviewers and cannot help but wonder where the old ones are at O.o_

_Also, sorry for that typo in the beginning of last chapter. Of course the first word is supposed to be 'In' rather than 'I'. Stupid spellcheck teamed up with my evil (and lazy) keyboard to sabotage me I'm sure. _

* * *

15.

Four days until the Saxons would arrive. Guinevere looked down on her friend as the other awoke bleary-eyed and with tangled hair. At least the dark circles under Nimue's eyes had somewhat subsided, thanks to one of Maeve's miracle potions. Due to its effect the raven head had been cold out for most of the day.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly.

"Dammit, what was in that wine?" Nimue muttered, rather suspicious of the ruse the other Pict and that red-haired healer had used on her. Her stomach rumbled very audibly, too, reminding her that her last proper meal was days away.

"Let's get you fed and cleaned up." Guinevere chirped happily, barely able to hide the joy of having her closest friend back at her side. "Well, maybe not in that order." the brunette added with creased forehead, taking in Nimue's grime-covered skin, tousled locks and rather pungent smell. Yanking her up with more enthusiasm than tenderness, Guin ushered her friend away to wash herself and slip into some clean clothes. That being accomplished they made their way to the tavern. Scrumptious smells wafted from the kitchen, involuntarily making the water gather in the raven head's mouth. Her stomach grumbled again, louder this time. Guinevere made her sit down next to Maeve, who was watching over Vanora's youngest few children.

"How do you feel, milady?" the red head asked kindly, serious concern apparent.

"What on earth did you put into that wine?" Nimue inquired drowsily.

"Just something to calm you down, help you sleep. You direly needed some rest, milady," Maeve answered good-naturedly, far from feeling intimidated.

"Drop the milady," Nimue advised her gruffly.

"But you are..."

"That is quite irrelevant."

"As you wish, my Lady of the Lake," The other retorted dryly, smirking at the irritation in Nimue's face. Just then Guinevere came back and placed a large bowl of Vanora's stew in front of her friend. Receiving a grateful look, Guinevere sat and watched as Nimue began to wolf down the meal in a rather greedy and entirely un-ladylike fashion.

Finding herself under the intense scrutiny of a pair of big blue eyes she paused however, and regarded the small boy before her with something akin to surprise.

"That's Gilly." Maeve felt the urge to explain, "Number six of Bors' and Vanora's little rascals."

"Full name's Gilliam." The boy quipped dryly, then eyed the dark-haired Pict with curiosity. "Was you that pulled Uncle Dag out of the lake, wasn't it?" Nimue nodded mutely. Gilly turned around and yelled: "Four, Five, Seven, Eight; it's her!" upon which four more children appeared before the table. A small girl piped up, expressing their thank-you for taking the effort. Nimue waved it off, though she could not really hide a short glimmer of emotion crossing her features.

"Just tell your 'Uncles' not to drown themselves in lakes in the near future. I don't fancy getting shock-frosted again." Nimue closed dryly and sent the grinning children off. Turning to Guinevere and Maeve she asked, somewhat vexed: "The children have_ numbers_???"

* * *

Late afternoon turned into evening as the Sarmatians began to pile into the tavern. Most other patrons were too exhausted by the rigorous training they were being put through and had retired to an early night. While the other knights swarmed around Vanora for a bowl of her delectable stew; Bors was immediately assaulted by his extensive brood, save for Ten and Eleven; the two youngest were contentedly curled up in Maeve's and Nimue's arms. Iosante squeezed in between the red head and the raven-haired woman, gently tickling Ten's chubby face. The toddler squealed in delight when she was showered with attention from all sides. Having struggled back to his feet Bors glared at the Woad who was holding his youngest daughter. He still didn't trust the rebel as it was, and seeing one of his beloved offspring in her (admittedly tender) grasp made his stomach churn. Numbers One to Nine trailing at his heels he dropped down heavily across from the women and made to pry his littlest daughter from Nimue's grasp. The toddler began to wail pitifully as soon as she was lifted from the woman's lap, who shot the burly knight a look that was more incredulous than accusing. Her jaw set firmly.

"Don't ya dare call me a bad father, lass," he warned lowly, at the same time trying to calm his heavily protesting child. Nimue snorted and crossed her arms. "I'd never think of it, sir," she said tersely. "In fact you seem to be a horrible father."

Iosante shook her head and gave the knight a warning look; Maeve looked alarmed and more than a little overwhelmed by the sudden hostility. The two-year-old in Bors' arms still wailed and writhed miserably. She had taken an instant liking to the woman, sensing with the incorruptible instinct of a child that Nimue had a soft spot for everyone under five feet of height and/or twelve years of age. Just then Galahad flopped down next to his comrade, frowning in confusion when he sensed the tension at the table. Bors' knuckles had already whitened dangerously and only the wriggling child in his arms kept him from retaliating to the gall of that impertinent woman.

"Don't judge what you have no inkling of," he hissed sharply, fixing Nimue with his burning gaze. Her lips twisted involuntarily, as if trying to contain a snide remark. It didn't hold for long however. Just as Lancelot and Tristan sat down she spat icily: "I have more knowledge of children than you presume. For one I know that a truly loving parent takes the trouble of giving their child a name."

The sudden silence at the table was only disrupted by Ten's disgruntled wailing. Bors' jaw dropped as if unhinged and the others inhaled sharply at Nimue's audacity to imply that the large knight did in fact not love his offspring. Ten used the moment of her father's shock to scramble away from him and onto the nearest lap, which happened to be Galahad's. Appeased, the toddler threw her chubby arms around the young man's neck and eyed the two arguing people crossly.

"Hush, sweetheart," Galahad mumbled absentmindedly and patted Ten's back, like the others too caught up in the intense battle of wills that had now ensued between the Sarmatian and the Pict. If this went on sooner or later one of the two would probably kill the other, or at least horribly mutilate them. It was a most unfortunate development. Galahad cleared his throat nervously.

"Peace, friends. Let's eat first, shall we?"

"Not unless she takes that back." Bors ground out, rising up from his seat and leaning heavily onto the table. To many other people, the large knight towering above them would have been an imposing sight, but Nimue, fearless as ever, didn't even blink.

"Good people name their children. It's only Romans that number them." She stated simply, her voice devoid of emotion. Bors flying right across the table in a fit of wrath was only just averted by a fuming Vanora whacking her lover hard over the head.

"No fighting in my tavern. No fighting over my children." the russet-haired woman berated, making everyone but the two arguers cower away from her glare. Giving her lover one last warning look Vanora relieved Galahad of the toddler and turned to Nimue.

"You're welcome to make suggestions, girl." Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "Almost a dozen names to come up with isn't an easy task." She winked and off she went, leaving a positively nonplussed congregation behind.

"As if he'd ever agree to anything I could come up with." Nimue scoffed at the woman's retreating form and sent the large knight across from her a particularly dirty glare. Seven tugged lightly at her father's sleeve.

"I want a proper name, Da." The scruffy girl pouted, making Nimue's eyes light up in triumph. "We all do." When her father showed no reaction, the child huffed and proceeded to prod the knight seated next to Bors. She could be pretty damn persistent and she also knew that the man had a rather soft spot for his comrade's offspring.

"Uncle Lancelot, we want real names!" Seven wailed, bottom lip quivering dangerously.

"Naomi." Tristan threw in, much to everyone's surprise, his voice calm and almost affectionate. "My sister's name."

"That's pretty! Can I be called Naomi, Uncle Tristan? Can I, Da? Can I please?"

Bors sighed in defeat, but refused to grace the incredibly smug Nimue with as much as a glare. "Go ask your mother." He sent off his daughter and rose. Fuming inwardly he stomped away; more of his children occupying the seat he had vacated and smiling up at the adults around them expectantly. Three, the twins Four and Five, and Eight squeezed in between Galahad and Lancelot, while their oldest two siblings lined up behind them. Nine, with all the determination of a four-year-old, scrambled into Iosante's lap. Ten had also reappeared from wherever Vanora had taken her and pulled herself up to lounge half on Lancelot's lap, half on Tristan's, beaming up at the two men brightly.

"You know, your grandma's name was Avaline." Gawain suggested, having appeared, largely unnoticed, behind Galahad. Eight yelped and clasped her little hands over her mouth quickly, looking around as if wondering whether she would be reprimanded.

"Do you like that name, squirt?" the blond knight asked kindly. The child nodded furiously and dashed off to inform her mother of her new name, but stopped in mid-movement and turned around. Seriously she faced the adults at the table. "Was that Ma's ma or Da's ma, Uncle Gawain?"

"Your father's."

"Pretty," Lancelot remarked after the child was out of view. "Dag's mum was called Theris, was she not?"

Tristan flinched slightly as the toddler on his lap pulled at one of his braids playfully. Gently he pried the short fingers out of his dark tresses and handed over the child to Lancelot fully, then rose to clean away their dishes. Lancelot's eyes, half hidden behind his dark curls, regarded the little girl fondly before concluding: "I think that fits you, what do you say?"

For an answer he found himself in a crushing hug – well, as crushing as a two-year-old can manage anyway – and a sloppy smooch pressed on his cheek.

"I'd say she likes it." Nimue assessed, amusement clear in her voice.

"What about us?"

"Yes, what about us?" Four and Five demanded with an authority far beyond their years. This time it was Galahad who spoke up. "You know, I had two little twin sisters, just like you are. Do you want to know what they were called?"

"Yes!"

"Yes, Uncle Galahad!"

"Tell us!"

"Yes, tell us please!" It went enthusiastically back and forth between the twins. The young knight smiled reminiscently, no doubt thinking back to faraway days and trying to remember what his siblings had been and looked like. "Their names were Serra and Selia."

Both girls squealed in delight, their obvious pleasure only tainted by the fact that they almost immediately started arguing who would be Serra and who Selia. Quickly they were sent off to their mother, for only Vanora knew how to keep her brood under control.

Two spoke up, a boy who carried himself with far more decorum and countenance than his age would suggest. "Ma's da's name was Fingal. I don't remember much of him, 'cause I was so little back then, but he was kind and Ma says I take after him."

"Based on the legend of Ffion mac Cumhail." Nimue mused. "A good, strong name, boy. You chose well."

"The way this is going we should make a list." Arthur chuckled, having arrived just moments before, when the whole naming sessions had already been in full swing. Guinevere linked her arm with his and smiled softly.

"You haven't made any suggestions." The brunette Pict addressed her two closest friends apart from her fellow rebel. Maeve and Iosante exchanged a look, the Sarmatian giving the Briton an encouraging nudge.

"How about Terelyn?" the red head proposed meekly.

"That is a girl's name, isn't it?" Bors' and Vanora's eldest inquired, inclining her head slightly. Maeve nodded.

"It is, honey. Do you like it?" The girl nodded enthusiastically, a wide smile spreading over her face. Contentedly she scampered off as well, leaving only three of her younger brothers unattended.

"Terelyn, was that..." Guinevere began pensively.

"My mother." Maeve replied thickly, earning a comforting pat from her Sarmatian friend.

"Now, who's left?" Iosante questioned and looked around searchingly. Only Three, Nine and the infant Eleven were at this point still unendowed with a name. She looked at the toddler in her lap, fondly taking in the fiery russet curls the small boy had inherited from his mother.

"Rion," she stated simply, making Gawain smile that she chose his brother as a namesake for the child. "And for you," she continued while turning towards Three, who fidgeted expectantly. "Uncle Lancelot's and my father's name was Cabal." She smirked, clearly taking pleasure in referring to her brother as 'Uncle' as the children so naturally called the knights. Lancelot scowled at his sister in mock annoyance.

"He was a great warrior." the knight added. The boy's features lit up and he squared his skinny shoulders proudly. "I shall prove myself worthy, Uncle Lancelot, Auntie Yosa." he assured eagerly, making Iosante raise an eyebrow at being elevated to the status of 'Auntie'. Now it was Lancelot's turn to smirk.

"Leaves only little Eleven." Gawain stated gruffly. "Arthur, you haven't said anything."

The commander took the tiny infant from Maeve's arms gently and rocked him back and forth. The baby just looked back into his green eyes intently, as if patiently awaiting a decision he knew he would be content with.

"Cadfael."

The knights smiled softly in reminiscence. They very clearly remembered the old Briton well that Arthur wanted to name Eleven after. Cadfael had been the fort's healer and silent grey eminence when they had arrived as mere boys. Taciturn but fair, he had taken on the role of a surrogate father and generously shared his wisdom, his unfailing honour and many a times patched up the boys both mentally and physically. Dagonet had learned everything he knew about the art of healing from Cadfael. It was largely due to the Briton's presence and care that they had not gone mad during their first years on this island.

Smiling contentedly, Nimue rose from her seat, stretching like a cat by the fireside. Swaying slightly as her still somewhat wobbly legs grew accustomed to her weight, she scrambled out and nodded a short good-bye to the people still seated at the table.

"Where are you going?" Guinevere asked worriedly, placing an arm on her friend's shoulder.

"To apologize to Sir Bors." Upon the incredulous looks she received she grinned warily and elaborated. "I was out of line. Old Blind Aled could have seen that these children mean everything to him." Guinevere saw her off with a nod, grinning at the memory of the notorious druid of their childhood. Old Blind Aled couldn't have found his own nose with a map and a mirror, but had known everything of their people: myths and legends, kings and warriors, how to raise ghosts or appease the gods – and he had known the hearts of the people as if they were an open book.

* * *

_So, new update. Huge thanks go to my beta sacerdotessa for helping me come up with names (and beta-ing of course). As the list of names and characters appearing in this story is turning out to be insanely long I refer those of you who tend to get confused to my profile, on which you find a nice little link to my blog in which there are full lists of all people and animals mentioned. _


	17. Chapter 16

_So, first here's another of my *extremely important* author's notes, and it starts off with a review reply:_

_Dear Marphisa,_

_To muster and when, that's the issue. Marphisa, you are right. I must admit that I fell victim to a false friend here. In German (my native tongue, for those of you who are too lazy to go to my proflie) the verb "mustern" is one way of saying 'to look at somebody or something, usually in evaluation or assessment'; strangely enough though it does hold a connection to the military sense of gathering/calling together soldiers, a "Musterung" (noun) being what young men have to go through to examine whether they are fit for service in the army, while another related noun, "Muster", translates to mean "pattern". I apologize for not checking, but up until now I was sure as well. Not anymore now that I looked it up :( That's what not being a native speaker will do :((_

_Marphisa, thank you for the hint and the compliments. I'm glad that at least content-wise you're hooked._

_Apart from that I greet all new subscribers and want to take up this opportunity to thank everyone for their support so far! _

_Aaaaand happy birthday Bors! Ray Winstone turned 53 today, 19th February 2010! _

* * *

16.

Turning her aching back on the perplexed Sarmatians, Nimue left the tavern, relishing the feel of the crisp evening air on her heated face. Once outside, she let her head drop against the cool stone wall. _This is not good_, she thought grimly. What was it about these men that they so easily managed to sneak a way into her heart? It had taken her countless years to be able to control her emotions, and just like that her precious restraint was gone. Had it been anybody else provoking her like that she would not have bothered to look twice, but coming from one of the Sarmatian knights it stung. It stung horribly still to be seen as a hostile figure when she would do just about anything to ... since when did she care what others thought of her? Since when did she care much for anyone but a very select group of people like Guinevere, Merlin or her family? But with them it was different. Far from the intrigue of legends larger than life there was something about these men that had drawn her in immediately, shaking her carefully upheld composure to the very core. Her veneer was wearing thin, first cracks apparent. Dammit, what where they still doing here anyway? They were supposed to be on their way back home! Before she knew it she would be thinking and feeling things that weren't good for her and doing the gods knew what on accord of these silly feelings. By the gods! Just a fortnight ago they had been enemies and she would not have hesitated to kill any of them in a fight. Not something she'd be capable of today, that much was certain. No, that wasn't quite correct. Her enemy had always been Rome and not the peoples it subdued into its service. She smiled humourlessly to herself. If Rome had never come into being the way it did all of them would have led free lives in their respective home countries, completely unaware of each other's existence.

* * *

Bors trudged along sulkily. Perhaps he had overreacted a little. Vanora wouldn't leave any of their children in the care of someone she wasn't sure of after all. It was Dagonet, he told himself. His best friend had died and that girl had shamed him by risking her young life for the gentle healer where Bors himself should have taken action. She had barely known the huge knight after all! That and then the fact that the raven-haired Pict made no sense whatsoever. Alright, women behaved in strange ways. He had acknowledged that long ago, but she was positively disconcerting in her unpredictability. Nimue was more bewildering than Tristan, if that was even possible.

Bors just turned around a corner on the way back to the tavern when he saw the dimly lit silhouette of a dark-haired woman repeatedly letting her head drop against the stone wall. The moonlight caught in her silver eyes whenever she leant back. Nimue looked so forlorn suddenly, much more like the girl she was if counted solely by years rather than the hardened, jaded warrior that life had turned her into. The burly knight almost felt a pang of pity as he took in her utter vulnerability.

"There are faster ways to kill yourself, lass." He spoke stiffly, shifting uncomfortably under her immediately returning glower.

_`Do me the honour then. I fear I shall go mad soon.´_ she thought darkly to herself, but once again pulled her face into an impenetrable mask.

"I wanted to apologize for my words earlier." she began, inwardly horrified at how squeamish and shaky her voice sounded. "It was unjustified."

Startled by her unanticipated admission Bors felt himself melt away a little on the inside. She reminded him of his baby girls when they were frightened or melancholy. His parental instincts kicking into place, he waved her apology off. "S'alright, lass."

"I understand you don't trust me. Let's just try to be civil towards each other." she half proposed, half pleaded. He nodded in agreement. What a horrible waste the world was making of its inhabitants. Nimue was but a girl, complicated perhaps, but still a girl, no older than in her twenties perhaps. In a world that wasn't turned upside down she'd have married a decent, patient, if somewhat masochistic, man and had many pretty children by now. In that world he and his brothers would never have been ripped from their families. And in that world he would have never found his Vanora. He sighed inwardly as Nimue bade her good night. Perhaps some good could come of everything.

* * *

There was three days to go until the arrival of the Saxon army, and training was still underway. Maeve panted hard as she dodged another lunge, sending the young knight sprawling to the ground. She and Galahad had been sparring like this for the best part of the morning, and although she still was reluctant to release her innermost dark and feral side she was definitely getting better at this fighting business – or better at dodging at least. Maeve winced as her ribs declared their displeasure at this exertion by sending a sharp surge of pain through her lithe body. It took her a moment to steady herself. Her brows knitted together in alarm when Galahad made no attempt to get back on his feet. Gods, she had barely touched him! But what if by some strange unnoticed incident she had somehow managed to injure him? As swiftly as her ribs allowed, she shuffled over and stood above his still form, glancing down half-crossly, half in worry. Galahad seemed to be oblivious to the distress he caused. Hazily he lay in the grass, his muscles completely relaxed, and stared into the sky above.

"Sir?" Maeve asked stiffly.

"I don't hate it here." he stated, completely out of context. The red-haired healer arched an eyebrow in bewilderment.

"I mean, I hated to be brought here and I loathed to be forced under Rome's thumb, but I don't hate this land. I don't hate its inhabitants."

"Ahm, that's ...nice?" she offered, somewhat perplexed as to what could have brought about this revelation, especially since one of the knights' favourite pastimes was complaining about the country and the climate in particular. Lightly patting the lush grass by his side the young knight beckoned her to settle down, and since she could well use a break at this point she did, drawing her legs close and hugging her knees as she sat.

"Tell me now what you see." He inquired pensively. She eyed him dubiously, wondering whether the young knight was still in the full possession of his mental capacities. Misjudging the woman's silence, Galahad looked up, one hand shadowing his crystal eyes against the sun. "That wasn't an order by the way."

She rolled her eyes at him in mock indignation, stretching out beside his lean frame and wincing when the sudden movement caused another jolt of pain to surge through her body.

"Well?"

"I see the sky, which is very clear today, though not particularly blue. I see the sun, which in addition to being bright today is also uncharacteristically warming." _But by far not as warming as the heat comfortably emanating from you_, she thought and fought the urge to huddle closer. Galahad gave a lopsided smile, eyes once more staring into the distance dreamily.

"I see the lush meadows and the hills. I see the rocky cliffs on the shores, so wild and foreign to us poor children of the Sarmatian steppe that they seem like places out of legends. I see the fog that clouds the land in mystery, graciously hiding away the strivings of the people, the blood and battles and hatred between them. I see the dense forests, unfamiliar and disconcerting even after all these years but nevertheless intriguing. I see..." Suddenly at a loss for words, Galahad smiled sheepishly and ran a hand through his curls. Afraid to have made a real fool of himself he turned to face the red-haired girl beside him. Her face was so close that it would have taken but a heartbeat to lean over and taste her lips. Galahad shook himself inwardly, wondering where on earth such a thought might have come from. Surely it was only because his best friend had found love. He had no doubt that Gawain and Iosante would be married as soon as – or rather if – they survived the Saxon onslaught. And given that Lancelot could be persuaded to give his blessing rather than tearing his fellow knight's throat out. Galahad sighed. Of course he liked Maeve. The kind-hearted healer seemed to be the personification of everything good and worthy of protection in the world: the cleverest, sweetest and gentlest woman he had ever met. He liked her. No, he adored her to be precise. _`But I do not like her that way´ _he firmly told himself, stubbornly denying his growing feelings for the red head. What was it worth anyway? Someone so pure could only be tainted by association with him, his world of war and bloodshed. She deserved better.

Maeve gazed at him, her green eyes sparkling in the bright morning light. Her forehead creased in the all-too-familiar way.

"Are you well? You look so troubled all of a sudden." she inquired. Gods, could this woman spend two minutes without worrying about the well-being of those surrounding her?

"I'm going to stay and fight." Galahad stated firmly, his mind made up.

"And what about your brothers?" Maeve said defiantly, almost as if in accusation.

"Arthur will stay, that much is certain. Iosante wants to fight as well – though I have no idea how she'll manage that – and where she goes Gawain will follow." At this point Maeve's jaw dropped a bit in surprise, her mouth forming a perfect `o´.

"I think they fit together well." she added after a small pause. Galahad grinned and nodded in agreement.

"Bors has his family here. Frankly I don't think he could uproot them just like that. He'd most likely stay. Tristan ... who ever really knows what goes on inside his mind? Just judging by his love for bloodshed and his loyalty to Arthur I'm sure he'll stay as well. It's just Lancelot who's against it at this point." the young knight proceeded to ponder aloud.

"He might be right though," Maeve threw in shyly, and so quietly that he might not have heard it.

"Lancelot is really just watching out for his sister. If it weren't for her he'd follow Arthur – eventually, and after an awful lot of arguing." Galahad exhaled slowly and rubbed his forehead. "What do you mean by `He might be right´?" Flinching at her ribs, Maeve pulled herself up and avoided eye contact. "Perhaps it would be better if you all just left."

"You're staying."

"Because I have nowhere else to go. This is my country; it isn't yours," Maeve forced out and averted her face, not wanting to show the tears that threatened to fall.

"My brothers and I have lived here for longer than in Sarmatia," Galahad argued tentatively. Sitting up, he hesitantly stretched out one hand towards the girl in a gesture of comfort, but didn't dare to actually touch her.

"But you hate it here!" she argued desperately.

"I just told you that I don't."

"You'll be killed." she retorted, almost calmly, and slung her arms around herself as if to shield herself from the cold that wasn't there.

"Back in Sarmatia we would be just as likely to fall. It doesn't matter whether it happens by the hands of a Saxon or a Hun. If I fall I want it to be for something that's worth it."

Quickly Maeve rose to her feet, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like `Bloody men and their damned warmongering!´ Rolling her shoulders and wincing yet again, she gave an exasperated sigh and locked her eyes with his. Several moments passed in which neither said a word. Eventually Maeve crossed her arms defiantly and huffed, resigning herself to the inevitable.

"Alright then, try not to get yourselves butchered completely and I'll try and patch you back up afterwards."

* * *

_Right, so everyone keeps urging me not to kill off Tristan. I begin to live in fear of raging lynch mobs. Does nobody have a heart for poor ol' Lance, Gawain, Galahad? Bors? Make your preferences known! I have a new poll up on my profile in which you can vote for your favourite knight (or Arthur). I urge you all to at least make use of this voting right if you're not going to review. Of course you're always welcome to do both ;)_


	18. Chapter 17

_So, here we go again. Thank you for over 4500 hits! The story is almost 40 000 words and 74 pages long now (and that's just the published part)! Wow! Personal record, and you, dear readers, made it possible!_

_Also thanks to the six people who already participated in my poll. That's a good start! Would it make you feel more inclined to vote if I threatened to kill off the person who gets the least votes? _

_And would it make you feel more inclined to comment if I randsom Tristan's apples for reviews? You know, he gets VERY, VERY cranky if he can't have his daily intake of fruit. I say he gets one apple back for every review, two for extra-constructive ones! Oh, I am so evil *insert really evil laugh*_

* * *

17.

Tristan shifted his weight, careful not to produce any sound. Any rustling of the leaves or a spooked bird would have alarmed the people below of his presence. The scout hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Besides, what little of their language he had picked up during his years here was by no means sufficient to understand anything. Goodness! He had been here before they came, enjoying the serenity of the sunset away from the noisy fort. Then with the fading light the Woads had assembled on the edge of the forest. Most of them he did not know. They were about Merlin's age, probably the elders of the clans. Guinevere sat by her father's side and there was another young woman, her dark maroon hair a stark contrast against all the grey and greying heads that surrounded her. Nimue was nowhere to be seen. The scout could not fathom what kind of assembly was being conducted here; a council meeting perhaps, or a service to their gods? Not that it mattered greatly to him.

His hawk eyed him with bewilderment. For a moment he could have sworn she had rolled her eyes at him. Tristan chose to ignore that. _Women!_, he thought warily. At the rate this was going only Lancelot and he would remain alone among their merry band of brothers. Well, Lancelot would always find a wench to warm his bed for him but that didn't count. But it was not Tristan's place to judge the dark-haired knight's escapades. Bors had his Vanora, and Arthur, Gawain and Galahad were not so much in love as that they had sacrificed their very souls to their 'Dungeon Birds'. But Tristan was just fine alone. As long as his hawk was with him.

The sudden silence below startled him. The even humming of creaky voices had subsided without warning and the unknown young female stepped into the middle of the circle. He could only see the top of her head from his spot among the branches. Still, something about her struck him like a stone. His brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to pinpoint the vague feeling. The air seemed to melt around her feet as she stood, and upon raising her slender arms, wavered around the woman's lean form. Her voice was calm, quiet and sombre as she spoke, though also resounding and strangely soothing. Not much more than a murmur drifted to the height of Tristan's hiding place. Some elders argued, or so it appeared. He more sensed than heard it. Merlin stalked into the middle of their circle, where the woman had remained unmoving, and placed an object into her outstretched hands. As soon as the old Pict leader had retaken his seat among his countrymen the woman began to speak anew, only this time her voice was much different. In fact it didn't sound anything like the voice she had employed just moments before, but rather like a choir of dozens of spirits: wide, hollow, howling, beckoning, like an oracle from another world. A slight breeze had picked up, swirling dead leaves around her ankles. Upon the ending of the incantation all these effects died down as abruptly as a candle being blown out. The woman swayed ever so slightly, the object slipping from her grasp and clattering to the ground. Merlin spoke again and soon the congregation was dissolved, leaving only the strange enchantress still standing in the middle of the meadow, just beneath Tristan's tree. Without warning her head snapped up, her eyes locking with his so accurately as if she had known of his presence all along. He was too far away to make out any subtle changes in her expression, but he clearly sensed the burning intensity of her gaze as if it hit him physically.

His hawk took off with a martial cry, gliding down on her graceful wings and circling the woman once before settling on a low branch. There, she cocked her head and regarded the Pict pensively for a few moments. It sounded ridiculous, but Tristan could have sworn that the two beings were somehow communicating with each other. Soon enough the bird spread her marvellous wings and swung herself up into the darkening night. The Pict woman shot Tristan another unreadable look, though now as before he could detect no hostility. Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the forest.

* * *

Maeve swore under her breath and shot another glance at Vanora and her aunt Evina. Both of the older women seemed determined not to think about the oncoming Saxon force and subsequent battle for as long as humanly possible. Instead they chose to drone on about the most meaningless things. There were only two more days to go until the estimated arrival of the Saxons and the tavern owner and her newly hired cook debated dresses! The upbringing of children! Recipes, for goodness sake! Was there no better way to occupy their minds? On the other hand, wallowing in self-pity and paralyzing fear would do no good either, of that the red-haired healer was very much aware. It was just that the idle chitchat made her dream about things that were presently unattainable, and that hurt. Meekly, the red head excused herself to check on the infirmary for the hundredth time. She and Bryn had seen to it that the building was sufficiently stocked with everything a healer could possibly need when tending to wounds. After hurrying across the square and into the solemn building, she closed the door behind herself and rubbed her arms, urging the cold to creep out of her bones.

Her bag sat on a shelf in the corridor. The piece of furniture also held a mass of clean cloths in neat piles as well as a variety of clay bottles and clear vials, filled with various potions, balms and salves. Upon entering the first room Maeve made sure that there was wood in the fireplace and a cauldron for boiling water. Bandages were in their place as well as previously prepared wine and honey for disinfection. Her surgical equipment – mainly knives of various shapes and some needles – was outside in her bag. She knew perfectly well that these were in pristine working order, but checking gave her a sense of security. After having finished her round through all the rooms and finding everything as it should be, Maeve was just about to step outside when she heard the approach of a very upset Iosante. The Sarmatian woman marched straight towards the infirmary fervently, dragging her brother behind and audibly scolding him all the way. Lancelot had given up protesting two crossroads ago and now proceeded to simply roll his eyes at his sister.

"Maeve!" Iosante called out upon seeing her friend in the doorway of the infirmary building. Beholding the siblings with a raised eyebrow, Maeve stepped out of the way and motioned for them to go inside. Her eyes fell on a nasty gash on Lancelot's lower arm as he passed. The knight mouthed 'It's nothing' apologetically as he was dragged along by his other arm.

"So, what happened?" Maeve inquired, sitting the man down in one of the rooms and taking a better look at the bleeding cut.

"Nimue got a bit overzealous in training;" Lancelot explained, wincing slightly at the burning as Maeve cleaned his wound.

"You provoked her!" Iosante accused with blazing eyes from the other side of the room where she leant against the cool stone wall.

"I did not!" he insisted.

"You did just that!" the Sarmatian woman seethed aggravatedly, "I was there, remember? Besides, she apologized right away."

"Aren't you supposed to be on my side, sister?" he bristled.

"No, when you're behaving like an immature, insufferable" she gestured dramatically to find a word to describe her infuriating brother, "_bastard_, I'm most definitely not!" Turning to Maeve she ranted on: "Gods, one would think that growing up with Masite and me for sisters would have taught him not to anger a woman who wields something sharp and pointy. Men! Honestly, at times I quite fancy the lifestyle of our Amazonian ancestors. I bet it was much less tiresome."

_And I bet Gawain could easily turn your mind from that idea_, Maeve idly thought to herself and grinned inwardly. Lancelot snorted, drawing back his sister's attention.

"I just don't understand what's up with you and her! I clearly recall a few days ago you'd go in against Bors in her favour, claiming that she'd come back – which by the way is exactly what happened – and now you can hardly let a day go by without getting into struggling with that woman! Truly there are less antagonizing ways to signal someone you fancy them." Iosante spat at him, more annoyed than angry.

"I do not _fancy_ her!" he almost yelled in reply to the outrageous implication. Sure, he still found the Pict woman infinitely intriguing – like he had stated in front of Bors all these eternal days ago – but that did not, most _certainly_ did _not_, indicate any kind of affectionate feelings or desires.

"Then why don't you just leave her be? I bet she'd also take a lot more kindly to you if you didn't follow her around like a love-sick puppy."

"For the second and last time! That is a completely ridiculous notion and I will have no more of it!"

"Why ever not? I mean, she's beautiful and brave and strong and impeccably good with children and – the two of you are quarrelling like an old married couple already." Iosante evaluated, a hint of mirth in her voice.

_Much like you are right now_, Maeve mentally assessed, finding the heated exchange amusing rather than alarming. She had almost finished tending to Lancelot's arm; it would only take a few more moments to wrap the bandage around.

The knight huffed and glared through the curtain of his coal-black curls. Nimue was undeniably gorgeous _(but that was merely his objective evaluation as a man, nothing else) _and a formidable fighter, but foolhardy rather than anything else _(to be precise she lacked absolutely any sense of self-preservation)_, and first and foremost the single most challenging, unpredictable and irritating individual he had ever met. And now pondering was getting in the way of retorting.

"Why do I have the impression that whatever I say now will be wrong?" Lancelot concluded dryly, offering his sister an armistice with his signature smirk. There weren't many women who dared to speak to him in that way; actually that list consisted of Vanora, Iosante and the infamous Nimue and that was it.

"Right; I propose less maiming of allies, more maiming of enemies. Did I make myself clear?" his sister replied with that very same expression on her face.

"Aye, general," he replied with a mock salute. _Perhaps you should tell her that_, he thought. After all it was him who had been maimed here.

"Good. Now, I think I rather like her, so you are going to either leave her alone or be civil, understood?"

"Aye, ... ma'am." Lancelot flashed her the most impertinent grin. It was the least his dear sibling deserved for bossing him around in that manner, he figured. Murmuring some words in their native tongue, no doubt bestowing some rather unflattering terms on him, Iosante playfully punched his shoulder, thanked Maeve and dragged her brother away again.

* * *

Night had fallen over the fort. Vanora's tavern crowded with the assuring regularity of waves against the shore. Nimue had climbed the ladder from total stranger to 'Auntie' in a remarkably short time period for Bors' and Vanora's offspring. Avaline, Rion and Theris were presently crowded around her and listened very intently to an old legend about a dragon that lived in one of the many lakes of the north Nimue told them about. Lancelot approached their table with two pitchers of ale, one of which he sat down in front of the raven-haired Pict. Nimue paused in her storytelling to look at him quizzically.

"You look like you could need a drink." he stated simply and flopped down on the opposite side of the table, taking a generous gulp of his own beverage. He was trying to be civil, really. Nimue shushed her listeners' feeble protest and twisted in her seat.

"Right," she replied, stretching the word unnaturally to show she didn't believe one bit of that sudden concern for her well-being. "How's your arm?"

"Fine!" he snapped and tried to hide the thick white bandage Maeve had put on the wound earlier that day, but Nimue was quicker, grabbing his hand roughly and pulling it towards herself in order to inspect her handiwork. Her eyes held so much intensity in their piercing gaze that for a moment he wondered whether she was able to see through the fabric. Lancelot sighed inwardly. The bandage made it look much more dramatic than it actually was.

"It's but a scratch," Lancelot claimed defiantly; attempting to pull his hand out of Nimue's iron grip; the motion caused some uncomfortable tugging at the wound and thus he decided to let it be.

"Rubbish," the Pict rebel declared. "I got you good."

Already his irritation was growing. This girl was so exceedingly irksome and she took an almost perverse pleasure in the damage she could inflict on others. _Or just on me_, he thought, annoyed.

"Didn't need stitches though, did it?" He shook his head in reply. "I'm sorry." Nimue said, finally releasing his hand from her grasp.

"That it didn't need stitches?" the knight inquired pointedly. She looked at him as if he were dim-witted.

"I'm not even going to grace that with an answer," Nimue sneered and crossed her arms. Her gaze fell on the ale pitcher he had brought her. For a moment she earnestly contemplated simply throwing its contents into his insolent, handsome face.

"Fine. Suit yourself," Lancelot retorted sardonically. He almost failed to suppress a pout and took another large gulp of ale to mask that fact. Nimue still hadn't touched hers. So much for peace offerings. Well, in one point Iosante had definitely been right: Nimue and he always did end up clashing, and violently at that. There was just something about this woman that at the same time drew him in irrevocably but also caused him to find it increasingly hard to hold his temper in check.

"You want to know what I think, _Two Blades_?" Nimue began after a very long pause, which had accounted to no more than there being no winner in their staring match, Avaline and Rion leaving after deducting that there would be more arguing, but no more storytelling for the time being, and little Theris dozing off blissfully, head resting on Nimue's lap trustfully. This time it was Lancelot who decided not to grace her with an answer. Not that it would bother her. The question had been more rhetorical anyway.

"We two are not so very different actually."

"Oh yes?" he retorted with dripping irony. Not that it would faze her, or was there a glimmer of irritation in her gleaming silver eyes?

"Yes, Arthur and you – Guinevere and I. We're losing our two best friends to each other. He doesn't talk to you as much as he used to, if much was ever the word to describe it, isn't that so?"

Lancelot only snorted derisively, annoyed at being seen through so easily and not at all willing to admit it. What did she presume to know, about Arthur or him or anyone of his fellow knights for that matter? How dare she compare them?

"It's different for you though," the Pict went on, pondering aloud, "You still have your sister, your brothers. My brother will be dead within the week." Her voice cracked with the last words, revealing a tiny glimpse of vulnerability. Pensively she stroked the hair of the sleeping toddler in her lap. Her voice was soft, solemn and beckoning as she continued.

"You should go home, all of you. Take wives, have many children. Find your sister a worthy husband so your children will have cousins to play and grow up with. Cousins are a marvellous invention, wouldn't you agree? They generally cause you so much less grief than siblings."

_Goodness_, thought Lancelot. Why was she so ... abrasive one moment and tragic the next? Her behaviour was so erratic that he found it hard to keep up. Capricious? No, there was some method to the madness. He simply needed to unravel the underlying logic.

"I've killed too many children of others. What right do I have to my own?" Lancelot questioned, again growing defiant. What was it of her business? Sure, he didn't especially warm to the idea to be slaughtered in a useless, hopeless battle, but on the other hand everyone he'd ever cared about was staying. Heck, even the old, half blind and fully deaf were staying. It would be most dishonourable to leave. It would load him with a shame that could never be erased, and what did he have left, what helped them all through all these years, if not honour?

Vanora stopped by, almost double-taking at the sight before her. Nimue sat in silence, the sleeping child curled up next to her, and looked rather distraught, and Lancelot opposite her brooded darkly. At least they were not bashing each other's skulls in yet. For a moment the feisty tavern owner contemplated the image before her, then, in an attempt to lighten the mood as well as tease the two younger people, remarked in an overly-cheerful voice: "My, what a domestic scene. How lovely!"

Nimue's eyes hardened again instantly and she gave the knight a dirty glare, even though she was more upset with herself for letting her guard down. Domestic? As in founding a family together? With that insufferable individual when she could just barely refrain from strangling him most of the time? Inconceivable.

"I'd sooner jump off a cliff!" she muttered stiffly and pursed her lips firmly.

* * *

_So, very talky,talky chapter, a new mystery character, some (admittedly very Lance-centric) relationship development for gkmo (in awesome Aussie-land where I'd like to be right now, instead of wet, cold, nasty Berlin) and some maiming - well, not really, sorry :( - for Sadie Hyde. (Rest assured that there is more proper bloodshed to come though.)_


	19. Chapter 18

_Again I apologize to all subscribers for the recent confusion. Due to my complete inability with technical stuff I somehow managed to delete one chapter in between. Then I had to delete all the chapters following that one in order to put it into its proper place again, THEN re-upload all the other chapters. Sorry! Small, sharp rocks and other vicious missiles have been thrown at me for my incompetence already. In order to make it up to you there are two things: Firstly, this chapter! Yay! Secondly, my blog now features picture galleries of all our beloved knights! Double-yay!!! Go check it out and behold the gorgeousness ;)_

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18.

"Rhian was my sister. The girls are my nieces, too."

"I know that; it's just that I promised it to Niall. It was his last wish."

"At least they are safe for the time being, right?"

"So you said."

Tristan had stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he had heard the voices, just out of sight around the corner of one of the houses at the very edge of the fort. They were speaking in their native language; he understood only a few odd words here and there. He merely gathered that they had some sort of relation through someone by the name of Rhian. It was still early in the morning; he hadn't expected anyone to be up already. The sun hadn't even risen yet.

One of the voices unmistakably belonged to Nimue, the other he wasn't sure about. The pleasant lilt and resounding quality of it seemed faintly familiar. With some words of farewell, the two women parted, Nimue walking away from him towards the woods again, while the owner of the second voice stepped onto the path in front of him, a checked cloak flowing like liquid around her form.

It was definitely her: the mysterious Pict witch. Her step was light despite the heavy boots. Her hair was kept together in a thick braid that reached down almost to the small of her back and swayed gently with her steps. She walked with a mixture of stealth and grace, which Tristan had noticed of all the female rebels residing in and close to the fort.

He did not know exactly what possessed him to follow her; perhaps it was the trademark wariness of strangers and urge to discover the unknown that made him the able scout he was. Perhaps it was the way she had looked at him the previous night or the way his hawk had behaved in reaction to her that evoked his curiosity.

The woman swiftly travelled along the walls of the houses, keeping to the shadows instinctively, and progressed towards the stables. Upon entering the building the horses all rushed to the entrances of their boxes, neighing softly as if in welcome. Tristan melted into the shadows by the gate as she walked down to the far wall and straight to Dagonet's Barastyr. To the scout's great surprise the stallion neither attacked nor shied away from the Pict woman. Up until now the only other person to get that close was Iosante, and it had taken his countrywoman a great deal of patience and all her expertise just to manage it.

The Pict murmured softly to the animal as she entered the box, tentatively running a hand along the crest of his mane. Then she leant against the wall leisurely and began to talk in muted tones. At first Tristan thought she was keeping the horse company, but as the moments went by it became clear that she was engaged in an actual conversation, ever so often listening thoughtfully, then carefully considering her reply. She was talking to someone – a human someone. But there was no one else there! How could this be?

Suddenly she turned her head, and fixed her gaze on his face again, just like the night before. But instead of the silence she had held last night, she now raised her voice slightly above a whisper and invited him to come closer with a polite smile. Intrigued, he made his way over with a few long strides.

"Good morning," she stated simply, as if there was nothing odd about the situation at all. With the practice of a lifetime Tristan quickly scanned her over, searching for any hidden dangers. She was lean, but had much less toned muscle than Nimue possessed. He concluded she was less of a warrior, more of...something else. She wore no weapons openly or concealed, as far as he could see; only a small leather pouch on her belt. Everything was normal. Her eyes, however, were the strangest things he had ever seen. One was blue, the other green; they caught in the light and gave off an incandescent, almost eerie glow.

_Inish,_ he thought involuntarily, _devil ghosts_. Even though his own father had been a diviner, a mediator between humans and Gods, the woman put him off. There was an aura about her that he did not understand, presumably because it was so distinctly British.

"I wasn't talking to myself, in case you were wondering," the woman began, suddenly self-conscious under his even gaze. Tristan waited, but she wouldn't elaborate on whom she had been talking to. _These women increasingly reveal themselves to be mad,_ he thought wryly, wondering what he had wanted here in the first place.

"And you thought Nimue was strange," the woman quipped in a tone so bone-dry that Tristan blinked. "Now you meet me, talking to ghosts and conjuring up spirits..." She made a vague gesture to indicate that there was more she could mention. Tristan was still silent, not eager to reveal too much of himself or let his guard down, even if she didn't seem to be a threat. Most people found him unsettling as it was; the strange Pict displayed no signs of unease. It was as though she almost enjoyed his stoic presence.

"Oh please, no staring match, sir," she exclaimed cheerfully. A wide, impish grin spread on her face, exposing dimples in slightly reddened cheeks. "I always lose at those."

Tristan's lips twitched into a lopsided grin and he took his eyes off her for a moment to stroke Barastyr's soft neck. The woman leant back against the wooden wall of the box again and glanced over to the empty spot she had been conversing with before. _Ghosts? Yeah right, _the scout thought sceptically. He turned his thoughts to the Pict again. At least she seemed to be no danger, just a sweet-tempered girl with some issues regarding her relationship with reality.

"Sir Dagonet says to tell you _'Don't think of it as being outnumbered, think of it as a wide target selection.'_"

Tristan's head snapped around to her again, his expression unusually perplexed. Not only had she uttered these words in perfect Sarmatian, it was also exactly the kind of thing that Dagonet would have said were he still among them. Today the Saxons were due to arrive, and tomorrow at the latest the battle would take place.

"Whatever that is supposed to mean," the woman muttered good-naturedly, and, giving Barastyr's ears one final stroke, she turned to leave. She nodded goodbye Tristan and brushed past him. He felt the cold skin of her hand on his for barely a second, but as their skin touched, the girl froze, as if she had been struck by lightning. Her eyes flared up; the colour of the bright orbs appeared to swirl around wildly. Her posture was rigid, her expression emotionless, her gaze unblinking; she seemed to stare through the very wooden walls of the stable. It was over in less than five seconds. The Pict inhaled sharply and steadied herself on a low beam. All colour had drained from her previously rosy cheeks. Her face displayed a vivid mixture of shock, astonishment and grim determination as she recovered from the incident.

"I must go," she whispered urgently. For the first time Tristan made to say something, but she waved it off vehemently. "Another time, sir. I have to hurry now. Goodbye."

Tristan frowned. He had merely meant to ask whether she was alright, seeing the strange behaviour she had displayed and the physical toll it had obviously taken on her. But his words died on his tongue as he watched the girl exit through the stable doors, stumbling slightly as she crossed the threshold.

He grumbled something unintelligible to the silence left by her receding footsteps, cast one last glance at Barastyr's box and left. _Ghosts._ He shook his head unwillingly, trying to shake off the eerie feeling. Ghosts didn't exist and she had most definitely _not_ been having a nice little chitchat with Dagonet here.

* * *

"Some of the villagers are not without talent," Iosante assessed and Tristan nodded his agreement, "Besides; the wall is, what, 15 feet high? That's not too great a distance. Even an unskilled archer is bound to hit _someone_."

Arthur acknowledged the evaluation with a sigh. Everyone looked to him for decisions. How was he supposed to know what was best? God didn't tell him, no matter how often he prayed; and he'd done an awful lot of praying lately. No, Arthur would have to rely on his own experience and knowledge for this. They all expected him to lead them out of disaster. They always looked to him for guidance, and he was not sure he could provide it. With a sigh the commander leant against one of the cool, hard stone walls of the inner courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard, sketched onto the ground, was a map of the area: fort, settlement, wall, forest and all free spaces in between and surrounding that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the commander let his eyes wander over the people that had assembled in the courtyard. His knights were there of course, also many Picts, the majority of whom he didn't even know by name. Most were older, with greying hair and features drawn by the harsh lives of rebels. The elders, he presumed; the clan chieftains. Guinevere stood by his side; Nimue and another young Pict woman with long brunette hair were opposite him in between their countrymen. It had been still before midday when Arthur had called this meeting in order to discuss strategies for the upcoming battle, now it was afternoon. The fact that his knights were there equally pleased and disturbed him. On the one hand he was glad for their supportive presence; it gave him some reassurance in between all these strangers who until very recently had been their enemies. On the other hand the knights hadn't officially declared themselves to anything regarding the Saxons. They were free men now and he would have liked to send them off into safety, far away from this dangerous country sooner rather than later. They had earned it after all.

Inwardly fending off these conflicting emotions, Arthur concentrated at the task at hand again. The villagers were without doubt the weakest link in their humble defensive force. To station them at a point where they could actually inflict more damage on the Saxons than themselves would be a sensible thing to do. But what about the rest?

Some had helped with the preparations: there had been trenches dug on the future battlefield – the wide open pasture just south of the wall, away from the actual fort and settlement – and filled with tar in order to be ignited and confuse their enemies. The smoke would make it hard for the Saxons to see.

The problem was that they had no clear idea about what they were facing. How were the Saxons equipped? What was their fighting style? What were their strategies? The facts they did have were precious few, and without information, how could they know how best to counteract? Arthur massaged his eyes with a finger and thumb as he listened to the umpteenth suggestion put forwards by the elders. What did it matter if the Picts were in the forest, or clearly seen on the field? What did it matter if the wall gate was wide open or barred shut? But of course it did matter. His life, the lives of his fellow knights, everything depended on these choices.

The latter was, in his opinion, the best when it came to the darn gate. It would at least give them time until the Saxons had managed to break through to their side of the wall, and it supported the suggestion Iosante had just made.

"What do we do then?" Galahad asked innocently after the current speaker had finished, putting only the slightest stress on the word 'we'. Of course cavalry had not been included in any plans so far; Arthur had somehow hoped his men would still make up their minds and leave, therefore he had not dared to integrate them into strategic considerations yet. Now he was left staring at them dumbfounded. His jaw might have dropped to the ground in astonishment. He was not quite sure, nor did he really care.

"Come on, did ya really think we'd let you have all the fun?" Bors boomed, with a grin that was entirely at odds with the situation.

"Yea, you'll only get yourself killed if you're alone," Tristan murmured with his usual nonchalance, though a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth and his amber eyes glinted in the way that only the prospect of bloodshed could bring about.

Still stunned, Arthur merely nodded. Slowly it registered with him. Tristan and Gawain looked eager as anything, Galahad and Bors displayed the sort of grim determination one could also witness in the native Britons who were set on defending their homes and families. Lancelot, the only knight who looked neither excited nor determined, frowned heavily and evaded his commander's looks, instead glaring unhappily at his sister. She glowered back even more unhappily. Arthur sighed inwardly. He did not like the two siblings' personal quarrels to poison the tense climate, and by the looks of it they'd be up at each other's throats by nightfall at the latest – and ferociously fending off any attempts of interference.

"Well?" Galahad asked again, referring back to his first question.

"What's that thing you Sarmatians do?" The speaker was a broad-shouldered man, in his mid-fifties, with a gruff voice to match his wild appearance. For lack of a better description: he looked like Bors' long lost Pictish twin, if ever he'd had one. Not so much in terms of looks and clothing, but in the way he carried himself and his demeanour.

"Which thing?" Gawain retorted, his voice sharp. He looked the man up and down, taking in the long, greying hair and brightly checked cloak with partially concealed disdain.

"Ya know, that thing when you charge at full gallop, then swerve or feign retreat or whatever that's supposed to be and then fire your arrows as you ride away," he explained, his hands painting the vivid pictures into the air, eyes slightly misted as he recalled fighting off such an attack.

"It's called the Parthian shot," Tristan answered dispassionately.

"_Parthean_ shot, eh?" the man replied, giving a pitch-perfect impression of the scout's faint, though still noticeable accent. Gawain snorted annoyedly, casting the Pict a look of clear dislike. With a wide, good-natured grin, the man turned to Arthur. "How 'bout that? I bet it's nothing any Saxon's ever seen before."

Before Arthur could answer, someone called out. One word, but a word that heralded such fear and determination from the assembled congregation, that everyone fell silent.

'Drums!'

Their foes had arrived.

* * *

_Oh...cliffhanger. _


	20. Chapter 19

_So, next installment :)_

_homeric so kind to inform me that one cannot review the same chapter twice, even if the content has been changed. Some of you might have experienced this on the last chapter. Honestly, if I had known what would come of it I would never have tampered with my settings there O.o_

_Anyway, I hope that you can save a few words to tell me what you thought of last chapter in your comments on this one : )_

_Other than that, there's an important announcement: Beginning with this chapter the rating will be set to 'M', because what good is a battle (and Tristan) if you can't let the blood and bones fly around, and what good is a romance without some action of the other kind ; ) _

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19.

Maeve looked darkly down on the meadow north of Hadrian's Wall. Her heart was beating so hard it strained her battered ribs. Vanora, standing close beside her, looked equally as anxious as the red headed healer felt.

"Damn bastards!" Maeve muttered with uncustomary hostility, squeezing Lucan's hand a bit tighter as the masses of Saxon warriors flooded the meadow. She barely took notice of Galahad as he appeared beside her and instinctively put a reassuring hand on her arm. It was incredible the noise the Saxons made while gathering. There was the metallic clatter of armour and weapons, the heavy thudding of boots and the guttural, savage growl of their strange language; the Wall's defenders, however, had fallen completely silent as they stood on top of the giant landmark.

A smaller group of people separated from the bulk of their massive army and took position just in front of the wall gate. One, a giant of a man with long blond hair and a permanent scowl on his face, exuded so much charisma and cruelty at the same time that he had to be their leader. His men virtually grovelled before him. Then there were six more Saxons, one bald with a braided beard, the others just as hairy, unkempt and vile-looking as their general. They weren't all Saxons though. Four of them held smaller cloaked figures as captives. Upon a sign from their commander the Saxons ripped the hoods off their prisoners' heads. A low, agonized wail rattled through the rows of rebels. Three men and one woman, unmistakably Britons, were bound and had obviously been grossly mishandled.

Arthur cursed blasphemously under his breath. Guinevere had told him they were still missing three of their scouts. It appeared they had been found. The other captive must therefore be Nimue's brother. One look upon the raven head's face confirmed that this deduction was accurate.

The Saxon general stepped forward and raised his voice to shout in abominably accented Latin: "Arthur! The Romans have left you and your people at the mercy of bestial tribesmen," at this the Picts hissed contemptuously and swore vehemently in their own tongue at the massed Saxons beneath them.

"Your knights have left you, all two dozen of them! If you wish to beg a truce for the pitiable folk inhabiting this wretched fortress come down here and kneel before me!"

The Sarmatians turned to their commander, confusion evident on their faces.

"Left?" Gawain asked with furrowed brows, and Bors added "Two dozen???" incredulously. Arthur could only shrug, having no idea where that sudden misconception could possibly originate from.

"I lied," Nimue spoke up with a shaky voice, her hands gripping the stone of the battlements so tightly that her knuckles stuck out white. "I gave wrong information to my brother, knowing he would relay it to _them_," at this she motioned vaguely towards the large force of Saxons, "If they estimated wrongly it would give us an advantage, so I told him to say that the Sarmatian cavalry was still almost complete and would have left immediately upon being discharged."

Arthur made to say something, but changed his mind. After all the Saxon had no other source of information on Briton affairs than the captives he was now displaying. Thanks to Nimue's ruse he'd either assume the knights had left, or that there were far more to be reckoned with than the five Arthur still had with him. Knowing this, the raven-haired Pict's idea of tar-filled trenches also made a lot more sense. For a moment Arthur was glad that his men were presently clothed inconspicuously, making it impossible to identify them as the knights they were.

The Saxon leader called out to Arthur again, much more insistently this time. Letting his eyes wander first over the people on and behind the wall, then over the four hostages, the half-Briton commander visibly wavered. _If I go down there and..._

"They're going to kill them anyway," Guinevere assessed matter-of-factly, as if having read his thoughts, her apparent calm only betrayed by the slight quiver in her voice.

"So you'll just watch as your comrades are slaughtered before your very eyes?" Galahad declared, his voice somewhere between revolt and disbelief. Unconsciously he drew Maeve and Lucan a bit closer to himself protectively. Guinevere nodded sadly in answer to the knight's question.

"Nothing we can do," the strange maroon-haired woman with the two different coloured eyes said mirthlessly as she stepped forward and put her hand on Nimue's shaking shoulder tensely. "Nothing anyone here can do about it."

The youngest knight was about to voice his argument against such an apathetic evaluation, but was stopped short when he noticed the tears brimming up in the Briton's eyes. _"__Màthair__..."_ she barely pressed out between white lips, composing herself just in time to give the knight a tremendously sad look.

"Do you think this is easy? Save your anger today and take it out on _them_ tomorrow, sir," Guinevere concluded ruefully, eyes once again trained on their foes and their captives.

Lancelot barely took notice of the exchange taking place mere feet from him. He was too enthralled by the appalling display taking place down on the ground. The three scouts stared ahead defiantly, their reddish brunette heads still held high proudly despite the obviously rough treatment they had suffered already. The same was not true for the slightly scrawnier man with the jet black hair hanging in his face messily – Nimue's brother. The dark-haired knight chanced a glance at the Pict woman who, due to the lack of space on the narrow walkway on top of the wall, was standing so close to him that he could feel her trembling. Down in the meadow, the Saxon leader continued in his taunting, ordering one of his men to draw his sword now. Nimue fought hard to pull herself together. Her fingers grabbed the rough stone as if her life depended on it. Now it wasn't just about Niall anymore. The three others, too, were dear friends and comrades she had grown up with. Forcefully willing back the tears, Nimue straightened out her back and suppressed the sobs rising up in her chest. Lancelot heard her sniffle audibly nevertheless. One of the Saxons now approached the first Pict scout, a young man of maybe thirty, and grinned maliciously as he stuck his blade into the Britons torso, down through the shoulder. The Pict didn't relinquish his brave smile until his heart stopped beating. His last words were a snide insult hurled at the Saxon leader.

"Oisín!" Guinevere, at Lancelot's other side, gasped in shock. It became clear now that the Saxons were moving along the line of their captives, finishing off every single one publicly for pure shock value, aiming to instil fear in their enemies.

"Nim..." the nameless Pict with the strange eyes and soothing voice began quietly, "You shouldn't watch this."

"You say that when your own-" Nimue mumbled bitterly, but stopped herself as the Saxon moved on to the second hostage. "Fallon..." she breathed instead of completing her sentence now. With the strength gifted only to those who were about to die, the Pict struggled, managing to head-butt his captor before being subdued and having his throat slit. Now with a bloodied nose and in a much fouler mood the Saxon entrusted with the executions moved on to the third scout – a female perhaps a decade older than the two men who had just died – but before he could lay his hands on her he was halted by his leader. The general marched over and gripped the woman's bruised face in his large hand.

"How noble of you Arthur, to let a lady die!" he mocked. The woman next to Nimue looked absolutely murderous now. Nobody doubted that, had she had a bow, the Saxon general would have found himself with an arrow firmly embedded into his body before he could draw another breath. Another Pict wrapped her arms around the young woman from behind, pinning her arms to her sides so as to prevent her from doing anything stupid. _"__Màthair__..."_ the maroon-haired one mumbled again, sounding more defeated this time.

"Would you really stand by and watch, all of you?" the Saxon questioned again, feigning affront. Shaking his head in equally hypocritical disapproval he turned to his hostage again, only to be met with a generous spat in the face. The crowd on top of the wall cheered at this, chanting what must be the doomed woman's name with grim satisfaction: "Maire! Maire!"

Maire paid for her insolence instantly; the vile crunch of bones breaking could even be heard above the now subsiding cheers from her people. The woman had lost consciousness and would have collapsed to the ground if not for the other Saxon who still held her up like a trophy.

"I think I will leave this one for now, Arthur," the Saxon sneered. "A reminder to your unfailing _mercy_."

As the leader motioned his executioner to move on, Nimue looked quite ready to simply jump down over the battlements and take on the entire Saxon force, virtually unarmed as she was. Her brother was next, visibly rigid with fear.

Lancelot put a restraining arm around the white-faced and trembling Nimue. If that was Iosante down there... he didn't even want to think about it, but couldn't quite keep the image of his sister half-dead in that dungeon out of his mind.

"Get off me," Nimue said tonelessly, without conviction.

"You really shouldn't be watching this," the knight advised quietly as the Saxon executioner hauled Niall up by his hair.

"I want to see it, I must... every last little bit of it. They're going to ask one day and I will have to tell them exactly how it happened," Nimue murmured shakily, having never felt more helpless than now; she had to stand by and watch as her beloved older brother was murdered.

* * *

Niall looked up at his little sister up on the wall, panic evident in his light eyes. She looked as if she would begin to break down in sobs at any moment, but knowing his sibling he knew that she would sooner curl up and die than let anybody bear witness to any weakness of hers. There was a tall, handsome man standing next to her, one arm wrapped around her frame almost protectively, and she leaning against him ever so subtly. The man seemed faintly familiar, the Briton thought dimly, wasn't he one of Arthur's Sarmatian knights? But hadn't they left?

He was beyond caring really. Since some Saxon had broken his nose and jaw with some brutal blows yesterday, the world was a haze of throbbing pain for Niall; he barely felt the wounds that the Saxon brought by him now. He cast one look at his sister-in-law, who stood beside Nimue, asking the only question that still mattered to him with his eyes and in his mind. _Are my girls safe?_ The maroon-haired woman locked eyes with him and nodded gravely yet sincerely, thus he was content to go. He relaxed a bit, allowing his stiff muscles to slump, and hung limply from the Saxon's outstretched arm like a scrap of wet cloth. If, may the gods grant it, Nimue lived through this battle, she might just find happiness – perhaps with that knight who held her so close right now – along with all his other former comrades and childhood friends. His daughters would grow up in a country free of Rome and perhaps of theses Saxon invaders as well. With these thoughts in his head, he flashed his executioner a lop-sided, defiant grin, just as the man delivered the final blow, leaving the expression forever fixed on his face. Even in death, Niall held onto the one thing that made him human: emotion.

Nimue let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and swayed, her knees suddenly too weak to support her weight. Niall's limp, lifeless body crumpling to the ground was the last thing she saw before the blood rushed to her head, momentarily blinding her completely. She neither heard the Saxon general order his men to string the bodies of the hostages up on the nearest tree, nor noticed how Lancelot settled her to sit on the stone floor after her knees buckled from underneath her body, her back leant against the battlements of the wall. Her breathing was heavy and laboured as she struggled to keep her sanity. Guinevere, by her side immediately, wanted to comfort her friend but found herself at a complete loss as to how.

* * *

The Saxon twisted his mouth into a humourless, malicious grimace. As troublesome as these captives had been, the effect their maiming had on the wall's defenders was worth it. He relished the waves of terror wafting off the Britons on the wall; the horror almost tangible. Their utter inaction had annoyed him immensely though; he had hoped to drive Arthur to do something rash in righteous anger. No such luck, for the Roman-Briton mongrel apparently knew how to keep his emotions in check. The Saxon general shrugged. Tomorrow...

"Tomorrow, Arthur, our forces will meet and you will be shattered!" His voice echoed off the wall; the challenge was set.

* * *

With a sigh of relief Guinevere found her friend's breathing nearing a normal level again. She exchanged quick looks of reassurance with all the worried bystanders: the Sarmatians, some of their fellow rebels, Vanora, Maeve and the children, Arthur; Lancelot knelt next to Nimue still, his expression holding equal amounts of compassion, confusion at his own behaviour and something else – ambiguous, unreadable yet tender. Nimue herself had slung her arms around her knees and rested her forehead on them, her thick raven tresses cutting off her face from scrutiny by the surrounding people. Lucan patted her shoulder timidly and Bors' youngest three had huddled close to the woman's figure instinctively.

"I'll have his head," it sounded roughly from underneath Nimue's black locks. She sounded resigned almost, but definitely determined to make her words become reality. Feeling pairs of questioning eyes upon her she elaborated, "The one who killed my brother; I'll have his head by tomorrow's nightfall."

* * *

_Yeah, head-hunting... The Celts are reported to have kept the heads of their most important enemies in their homes to show them to others, hence Nimue's determination to get that Saxon's head. _

_Funnily enough, the Sarmatians had similar customs. They would make drinking cups of their enemies' skulls and collect their scalps (and sow these onto the reins of their horses or make coats out of them, yum). Our brave knights have not yet displayed savagery in that aspect. I guess they've been a bit too Romanized (*cough* by Arthur *cough*). Ah, perhaps later I shall come back to it..._

_'Màthair' is Scottish Gaelic, according to a web dictionary I found. I won't tell you here what it means, but promise it will come up again later like two chapters from this one. If you're too curious, however, you could a) guess, b) look it up yourself. Oh, I know; that's sooo helpful. Sorry. _


End file.
